On The Way Down
by AJ Elfhawk
Summary: Sherlock makes the ultimate sacrifice to keep John safe – he does nothing. But when Mycroft fails to resolve the problem of the snipers, John takes matters into his own hands. * Warnings for violence.
1. Chapter 1

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 1: One Step Closer**

**Summary: **John believes in Sherlock, believes he's alive. He's ready to put his life on the line to prove it, because it's better than being alone. Sherlock thinks otherwise, because Sebastian Moran is a very dangerous man.

* * *

><p><em>"I stayed in one place for too long, got to get on the road again.<em>

_Dream, send me a sign. Turn back the clock and give me a some time._

_They say that we're dreaming too big. I say this town's too small."_

_Brand New Day - Ryan Star_

* * *

><p>A cold breeze rolled into the room as Sherlock lost patience with squinting through grime on the outside of his window and finally opened it. Settling back down on the ledge, he bent forward to watch John in the bright, grey afternoon light. The doctor didn't seem himself today, Sherlock thought, looking him over in more detail so that he might quantify the impression. John had worn the same trousers yesterday, which wasn't unusual except that he hadn't ironed them. He'd brushed his hair last night, but not this morning. It was more noticeable these days since he had missed two six-weekly appointments with the barber. It wasn't in John's character to let appearances slip, Army training and all. And yet here he was, the second visit in as many days, looking as though he hadn't even returned home last night.<p>

As John left the pavement and followed the path towards the cemetery, Sherlock saw his coat was fastened wrong – more preoccupied than usual then. Given his ultimate destination, there was no reason for John to be in a hurry, it wasn't as if the tombstone had a pressing agenda. Sherlock's hand drummed the wall beside him lightly before he shifted position to keep the subject in clear view. He wondered whether he should be concerned at these signs. The fingertip staccato resumed.

A scrap of tissue stuck out from the doctor's nearside pocket. Sherlock would have missed it if John hadn't removed his hand to hold the gate open for another man leaving. Sherlock turned his attention upwards to John's face, noting that his nose wasn't bright red but inflammation of the eyes was still minutely apparent from this distance. So John wasn't ill but he had been crying on the way here. It was a twenty-six minute ride by bus to Paddington Cemetery from Baker Street, but from the flush of colour in his cheeks John walked for over an hour to get there today instead. He hadn't done that since the first two weeks, so it was an indirect embarrassment of being seen crying that kept him away from public transport.

'Why am I still here?' Sherlock demanded of himself rhetorically, gesturing into mid-air before returning the hand to its pre-outburst location beneath his chin. He chewed the thumb nail before pressing the underside of it against his upper teeth. It had almost been three months since the suicide and despite itching with inactivity, he was committed to remaining in cover until there was proof the last contractor had been neutralised. The knowledge that he would have been more enthusiastic and effective than any other person attempting the job made his confinement even more irritating. He'd given Mycroft his word that he wouldn't leave, although the pledge hadn't been necessary. He wouldn't jeopardise John's life without significant need and favourable odds.

John's background wasn't typical; he had a high threshold to break. Sherlock wondered if it was too egocentric to assume this apparent setback was still about himself. Clinically speaking, grief was a straightforward matter give or take some measure of counselling, and he doubted John had missed the opportunity to seek his therapist's opinion on this occasion. She more closely resembled his conscience than his counsellor, hardly an objective source of judgement, Sherlock thought sourly. He knew he shouldn't be jealous, but he disliked knowing John was seeking other people's opinions again, with the chasms that manifestly loomed between them and the truth, twisting it until even John in all his compassion and faith would struggle to deny that Sherlock wasn't worth his time or energy.

Sherlock noted the pattern of thought that usually accompanied his insecurity as it surfaced again and deliberately dismissed it with a heavy, stabilising breath. He wouldn't allow a self-indulgent fear to influence his actions now. John usually accepted the things that Sherlock did with much indignation but little resentment because he knew there was always a definite reason, even if that reason came down to Sherlock's lack of consideration and assorted other personable failings.

In truth, there was nothing wrong with the counselling, theoretically. Well-placed observations from an outside influence coupled with generic healing techniques worked well on a variety of problems across the majority of the population. The problem was the way it had developed into a psychological crutch for John, disappointing after Sherlock had finally rid him of the physical one. John's everlasting scars were not from his actions as a soldier but the therapy that had come after. It seemed to inspire John to scrutinise the guts out of even the most mundane of experiences. From time to time, when even the sternest of looks hadn't deterred him, Sherlock recalled numerous incidents of being subjected to John's renditions of public trivia. It loosely followed a template of who'd said what to whom, and a remotely connected third party that usually took offense, despite having little to no legitimate interest in the original dispute. If John kept Sherlock's attention focused long enough to complete the train of his story, he would reward the more interesting narratives with full disclosure on the motives of all participants involved. This tended to please John as far as Sherlock could tell, in stark contrast to the occasions when he'd forgotten that John had been talking which lead to myriad foul looks and John's abrupt departures. Sherlock often suspected that John talked nonsense just to provoke him out of silence. After all that therapy, John presumably couldn't prevent the rubbish from percolating out of his mind now in any case. Sherlock had grudgingly become John's out-of-hours therapist.

John had disappeared out of view down the path some time ago, and Sherlock pulled the window shut, dropping the net curtain back into place. Only now he saw how much he'd come to enjoy the provoking, and the nonsense on some level. It made everything else that went on in his mind less consuming, easier to put aside. It allowed him to relax. In a number of critical ways, John was often right. There wasn't much satisfaction in what he did if no one appreciated it beyond any direct benefit they'd received from his attention. Until recently, Sherlock had deliberately allowed himself to believe the deception of finding pleasure in results, but he would never achieve happiness by solving improbable cases, they merely delayed his discontent. With John however, he'd had fun. They'd been quite happy together, he thought. Sherlock readily anticipated returning to such times again.

The stunt with Moriarty meant that he instead spent the majority of his time bored senseless. Apart from the paper being delivered - Daily Star, a tasteless joke from Mycroft - he was almost cut off from the world inside this house. The phone was from the Mesozoic era with a rotary dial that had seen so much active service its first three numbers had worn off.

Sherlock had started out by following John at a good distance when he came to visit, having not anticipated the frequency with which John would apply himself to the cause. After a while, when the pattern of behaviour had seemed unlikely to deviate, Sherlock had insisted on taking the little two-bed, end-of-terrace. Number Two, Tennyson Road overlooked the Willesden Lane entrance to Old Paddington Cemetery, the way John always came in. Which was just as well seeing as it was the only residential stretch around the cemetery. It was the best Sherlock could do to keep an eye on him. It was better than the flat in King's Cross that he'd started off in.

All bills were paid indirectly for his fictitious tenancy, Mycroft had seen to the practicalities. Sherlock in turn had ensured there'd be a considerable repair bill to repay him for the lack of intellectual amenities. He had no access to money, his legitimate accounts frozen to ensure Moriarty didn't trace him. The whole fiasco had turned into a triple bluff, both alive and waiting for the other to make his first move.

In the meantime, Sherlock relied on hand delivered packages to provide household essentials. No cigarettes. The cleaning products stood untouched on the floor in the toilet. There were packets of cash inside the deliveries that Sherlock routinely stuffed into a drawer in his bedroom. He thought about the cash often, thought about the levels of nicotine he could reach if he just went to the corner shop and got on with it.

But resisting smoking was just about the only occupation Sherlock had for the moment, other than de-tiling the bathroom with a hammer he'd found under the stairs. The risk of being recognised out 'shopping' was too great given his distinctive features, and his picture that continued to crop up in the paper at intervals. The previous commotion never accompanied it, but it was enough to make him wary. Besides, John would make a fuss if he knew Sherlock was smoking again, albeit posthumously.

Halfway through reclining on the bed, Sherlock made the decision to follow John again. He did try to resist the urge as often as possible, but resolve and impulse frequently clashed. He had never tended to feel or acknowledge loneliness, even bordering on cheerful at not having to deal with people on a daily basis anymore, but he sorely missed John's easy company and constructive discourse. Perhaps the ego-flattering, if he were honest with himself.

Trotting down the stairs, Sherlock lifted his coat from the line of pegs in the hallway and headed through the back door. Routine adjustment to the collar and sleeves followed as he covered the back garden in nine strides, vaulting over the fence with practised aid of the wheelie bin.

The crack of a gunshot echoed within the quiet cemetery grounds at the same moment as Sherlock landed.


	2. Chapter 2

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 2 – The Summons**

* * *

><p><em>"They say; 'be afraid'<em>  
><em>You're not like the others<br>Different DNA, they don't understand you._

_I want to walk on your wave length_  
><em>And be there when you vibrate<em>  
><em>For you I'll risk it all."<em>

_E.T. – Katy Perry_

* * *

><p>An echo of alarm returned as people in the distance screamed and called out. John lowered the gun from the air quietly. That was that then.<p>

A noise startled him and he turned to see a middle-aged woman frozen in place less than twenty yards away.

'Please, I have a family!' Her hands shook as she held them out towards him beseechingly.

'Oh, no it's fine – really, I'm not –' The woman wailed, crouching down to the ground as John stopped waving the gun about and lowered his hands. 'Go! It's fine.'

The woman didn't need to be told twice. He hadn't noticed her out of sight behind one of the gravestones. The few other people who were visiting had already put a good distance between themselves and the cemetery.

'Right.' John shifted where he stood, unsettled by the encounter. He'd spent a long time thinking about this moment, but it was impossible to avoid the feelings of terror and humiliation he'd known would come with it. The handgun now felt like dead-weight in his grip, his limbs had become slightly numb with anxiety. John rolled it between his hands and glanced around again. No one else was there. More importantly, Sherlock wasn't there.

That wasn't to say he wouldn't come, but the possibility was enough to make his pulse race. John took a deep breath to raise his voice.

'If you're going to prove me wrong Sherlock, now's the time to do it!' The words sounded strained, it was difficult to shout with no direction to aim at. 'The next-' John cleared his throat, and closed his eyes to compose himself for the sentence that came with such difficulty. 'The next bullet has my name on it!'

If he was wrong, he was going to die. Even if he was right, he would die anyway if Sherlock didn't believe in his conviction. Or if he just wasn't there.

'This is your fault you know.' He muttered to the gravestone. 'You're not getting off lightly whatever the outcome.' It didn't really matter if Sherlock had a sociopathic inclination; John imagined he had enough mental illness for the pair of them now, doing something like this. There were sirens in the distance already. It made him want to be as far away as possible, forget any of this had even happened. But it would be senseless running now, he was cornered and they'd find him eventually. Between possession and discharging of a firearm in public, he could kiss his medical licence goodbye. After all these years, all the things he'd seen and done in the army, all it had taken to unhinge him was Sherlock.

* * *

><p>His first thought was that someone was firing at him, that they had been using John Watson as bait. As he reached the ground he'd stumbled forward to get down behind some undergrowth, but there were no more shots. Besides, if a hitman had been waiting for him to enter the cemetery Sherlock knew he would be dead already.<p>

Unless the last contractor had discovered Sherlock was alive and was firing at John instead? But that didn't make sense, he'd been too careful to be traced here – there was nothing to give him away.

Someone must have known John would be here – taken him hostage to get to Sherlock. Someone like Moriarty. His shoulders tensed at the thought. Every time John was threatened caused his blood to heat in fear and fury. The sensation made logical judgment challenging, creating difficulty at the worst possible time. He sincerely regretted the number of times John had been placed in danger on his account. And now once more to force Sherlock's hand.

It had been a single shot, a summons. He had no choice but to respond. Sherlock sprinted towards the gravestone, careful to keep obstacles in the line of sight between him and John. A woman ran breathless down the path a few metres away, she looked terrified. She had seen the gun.

Sherlock stopped behind a line of evergreens and used the bushes as cover as he sneaked along half-crouching behind them. He heard nothing when he stopped, and chanced a look towards the burial plot. It was not what he'd expected.

'John.' Had a gun. To kill someone? Unlikely in broad daylight, at a cemetery. Perhaps John had taken the therapist's advice to express rage literally and was having a shoot-out at his grave, Sherlock thought dryly. He couldn't risk sitting up again; John had been looking around. He didn't seem threatened, superficially he appeared quite calm. As he weighed up John's behaviour and the gunshot, coupled with evidence of crying would logically mean premeditation for...

Sherlock froze for a moment, then waved his hand absently brushing the idea aside. No. If John wanted to kill himself, he'd have done it in private and with the first shot – he was familiar with firearms. Everything Sherlock about John Watson marked him as a survivor. He made the best of things. Why would he relapse after so long?

'If you're going to prove me wrong Sherlock, then now's the time to do it!'

Sherlock's eyes went wide in realisation. John had summoned him – with a gun. Of all the idiotic –

'The next... the next bullet has my name on it!'

'Oh.' Sherlock whispered. His chest felt constricted. Was John serious, would he actually play poker with his own life? What would he do that for? Why did he even think Sherlock was still alive? Too many questions...

Sherlock closed his eyes to concentrate. The reason he thought Sherlock alive was simply hope, which had been there from the start because John had far too much faith in him. But even if it was safe to approach John again, this wasn't how it should be done. Technically speaking when officially un-deceased, he'd be wanted for threatening the police with an armed weapon, evading arrest, taking a hostage – his idea... and now even the public had become involved in this stunt – which John was currently racking up offences for, possible more when the police actually arrived. The sound of the sirens was getting close. Even if Sherlock could get away, the hiding place would be rooted out for witness statements within the hour.

But what about John? He'd do time for pulling a gun in public, no question, and in front of a _witness_ – it got worse by the moment. Sherlock made a sound of frustration; he did not need emotions obstructing his thoughts at a time like this. His plans were unravelling in haste. Ascertain the facts.

John was bluffing. Suicide wasn't in his character. But... John knew that's what Sherlock would expect. Which meant John would also know that bluffing alone wasn't enough; he would have to be sincere for Sherlock to be convinced. In fact, his plan would _depend_ on Sherlock knowing there was no way for John to prove his intention apart from actually doing it.

Sherlock felt fear and thrill in equal measure. It was like the cabbie's game all over again. But this time it wasn't his life on the line – it was John's. It all came down to a simple question. If he did nothing, would John really kill himself? It was a passionate act based on hope, but there wasn't enough motivation for John to want to die. Unless Sherlock had missed something important.

'I suppose that's long enough,' he heard John mutter. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't.

The seconds elapsed like minutes, and suddenly Sherlock realised he couldn't afford to be wrong.

'John, STOP!' He scrambled to his feet, surprising himself. John stood frozen, staring at the gravestone. The gun rested against the side of his face, pointing up into his temple. He didn't move, didn't even look at Sherlock. Eventually he drew a very deep breath and leant forward onto the granite headstone.

'John...' Sherlock moved further to skirt the hedgerow, experiencing an overpowering sense of sympathy. 'Are you all right?'

John Watson collapsed against the stone onto his knees, crying silently. He ignored Sherlock until he felt the hand touch his shoulder. Then he turned on the spot and cried into Sherlock's coat instead, louder now.

Sherlock watched with uncertainty, his throat had closed off. 'I'm sorry, John. I had no choice – I couldn't let him win.'

'I never stopped believing, Sherlock. I told you I wouldn't on the phone. I knew you were better than that.' John looked up, his breath calming slightly. They held each other's gaze in silence for a moment before John broke it again. 'I forgive you, I forgive everything you did to me, but why didn't you come back? You could have trusted me...'

'We haven't got time for this.' Sherlock glanced towards the different entrances to the cemetery park, they had seconds left. Pretending to be bystanders would be stupid; it had been far too long since the gunshot to get past police now, they'd never let them through. John followed his gaze.

'I made you come. It's all my fault.' Sherlock looked at him impassively. John couldn't tell what he was thinking.

'Follow me, quickly.' Sherlock pulled John up by the shoulder of his jacket, taking the gun as he did so to conceal within his own coat. He started towards the line of houses, aiming several addresses further down from where he lived, they'd have no chance of getting into a property practically next to the entrance. Checking John was close behind; he picked up speed towards the outer fence. It was high, and there was nothing they could use to get back over from this side, all they had was momentum.

His foot hit the wooden panel mid-way as he grabbed the top and heaved himself over. Before he dropped out of sight, he caught a distant glimpse of two squads of armed police officers pouring into the cemetery from both ends. Sherlock turned as soon as he'd landed, and looked up. For a moment he thought John might not make it, but he needn't have worried. There was a loud thump as John hit the other side of the fence at full force a fraction of a second later, the army training standing him in good stead. Their eyes met as he pulled himself over.


	3. Chapter 3

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 3 – Truth by intimidation**

* * *

><p><em>"A strangled smile fell from your face<em>  
><em>It kills me that I hurt you this way<em>  
><em>The worst part is that I didn't even know<em>  
><em>Now there's a million reasons for you to go<em>  
><em>But if you can find a reason to stay...<em>  
><em>I'll do whatever it takes to turn this around<em>  
><em>I know what's at stake, I know that I've let you down<em>  
><em>And if you give me a chance<em>  
><em>Believe it, I can change."<em>

_Whatever It Takes - Lifehouse_

* * *

><p>Sherlock put a hand behind John's shoulder, urging him on. 'This way, keep going.' He took the lead through five more gardens as they worked their way up Tennyson Road, his attention still fixed on John's progress even though it was a redundant worry. Some fences were little over waist height and easy to vault, most were full height lap panels that required a lot more effort.<p>

Just as he heard police dogs joining the shouts of officers inside the cemetery, a brown and white terrier rushed over as they landed behind the third house. It barked zealously but kept its distance. Sherlock snarled back as they climbed over to the next garden comparatively quickly. The police dogs responded to the small dog's commotion. A helicopter was approaching from the north.

'Here,' Sherlock said as they reached the right garden. 'Get inside.'

'Who's house?' John sounded slightly winded as they came to the back door. Sherlock pulled it open, seeing him in safely.

'It's mine,' he muttered, locking the door behind him, leaning back with a deep breath.

Their relief to be out of the open was evident, but John remained stationary against the wall. They took each other in completely at last, skin flushed from the sprint, both of them breathless. John felt warm and strangely absent, absorbing the sight of Sherlock's remarkable features that he hadn't seen for so many weeks, apart from in photos. His mind, drunk on adrenaline, worked faster than his body as if he was moving through water. Sherlock was looking at him strangely, but he didn't care. It was hard enough to get past the fact that Sherlock was actually looking at him at all.

Sherlock was experiencing the opposite extreme. While he caught his breath watching John, his intuition had gone blank. The treachery within the words of his false confession to Moriarty's scheme barely compared to demanding John witness, and thus vindicate, his death.

Now the roles had reversed. The thought that John had tried to kill himself was disturbing, and the irony that Sherlock himself couldn't acknowledge it after what he'd put John through cut his pride deeply.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from examining John's eyes, wide and expressive, looking for the unspoken words between them. But John didn't hold eye contact long, reverting to staring at Sherlock's chin instead, something he had often done as a result of their difference in height. He was embarrassed, that much was obvious. But what for, being discovered in that situation at the cemetery? Getting found had been his objective, so surely not. Perhaps for putting them both in this awkward position? Sherlock unfolded his arms slowly, considering that it was possible he might truly be out of practice. He must have read the scene wrong, simply seen what he wanted to – John in danger, needing to be saved. A reason to go back.

That being the case, John had proven his own skills of rationality to be beyond reproach. Sherlock knew John's unshakeable faith would probably never cease to overwhelm him.

'I knew you'd figure it out, John. I just – I never expected you to do something like this.'

'Figure what out?'

'My note. That's why you're here isn't it?'

'Your note.' John was at a loss for words. Clearly he'd missed something, as usual.

'I tried to tell you what was happening, in the only way I could - in my note.' John still looked blank, and Sherlock finally realised he had been wrong. John hadn't worked it out at all. 'I said it was just a magic trick.' Sherlock finished quietly, his confidence on the matter shaken.

John looked away down the narrow hallway for a moment. His eyebrows raised briefly and he shook his head, almost smiling.

'Right. You did tell me.'

Sherlock's expression changed, frowning with suspicion.

'So how did you know I'd be there?' That question made John look embarrassed again.

'To be honest, I didn't.'

'So, suicide then?'

'No. I mean, OK, it was a risk. But I could have asked you the same –'

'A risk! You can't be serious!' Sherlock made a noise of frustration and locked his fingers behind his head, turning away down the hallway, then back again just as suddenly. He knew John was trying to deceive him now. The words were hollow. No one risked their life to make a point for no reason.

'You're lying to me, John.' He said softly, his anger clear by the tone.

'Sherlock, I'm not lying. Where else would I have found you? I hoped you'd follow me and notice the pattern. Realise I'd broken it. All I could do was pray to God you were there.'

'And God was happy to oblige.' Sherlock replied sarcastically, now standing inches away. Lowering his gaze to watch John, he leant forwards and closed the remaining distance between them.

John saw Sherlock getting closer, his thoughts swirling around the physical stimulus, too stunned to argue.

'What are you –'

'I need your phone,' Sherlock clarified, breaking the moment as he reached into John's pocket to remove it without hesitation. John looked down in surprise, opening his mouth to protest at the familiar disregard for his possessions and boundaries, but Sherlock shushed him, already busy texting.

_999. SH_

John caught the phone as it was tossed back.

'Stay downstairs.' Sherlock added gruffly as he left, heading up the stairs two at a time.

John thought Sherlock was optimistic if he expected him to follow orders again anytime soon after what had happened last time.


	4. Chapter 4

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 4 – Almost Business As Usual**

* * *

><p><em>"People<em>  
><em>They don't mean a thing to you<em>  
><em>They move right through you<em>  
><em>Just like your breath<em>  
><em>But sometimes I still think of you<em>  
><em>And I just wanted you to know<em>  
><em>My old friend<em>  
><em>I swear I never meant for this."<em>

_An Honest Mistake – The Bravery_

* * *

><p>The faded pictures and grubby wallpaper did nothing to sell the place to John. The door to the kitchen had been removed, only empty indentations remained where hinges had once attached. Along the lino floor, boxes were lined up against the cupboards. An assortment of tins and packets had been arranged on the work surfaces, filed into rows and split between two groups. He stepped in and looked closer at the packaging, then inside the overhead cupboards. Nothing was opened, nothing put away. The fridge was packed tightly with long-life milk. There was a clinical manner to the precision with which everything had been organised, lots of right angles. It was unlike any kitchen scene John had ever witnessed, certainly not at the hands of Sherlock. He checked the bin, there were tea bags and biscuit wrappers, empty tins of mostly baked beans and soup, which explained the separate groups of food. Things Sherlock liked, and things he didn't.<p>

The only other door downstairs opened into a square living room and a catastrophe of newspapers, torn up and reorganised again. Dirty cups peppered the room. The wallpaper was partially stripped and uniform punctures had been made in the wall, from a hammer he guessed by the shape of them. The holes were placed at random horizontally across the room, it reminded him of music notes on a very large page. In places the plasterboard had been completely torn out to the timber framework. Sherlock always seemed to take his aggravations out on the masonry; John had thought it was about the effect of making people aware he was displeased. Apparently it didn't matter if someone were present to witness it or not. Still, it was favourable to Sherlock taking it out on an actual person, judging by the state of the wall. John lingered at the door, and then headed to the staircase.

The stairs ended in a left turn onto the middle of a small landing. As he reached the top, there was a commotion from the room directly in front. The door was still ajar, an extractor fan buzzed from inside so it was clearly the bathroom, and he wasn't about to follow Sherlock in there. Why couldn't that man learn to shut the door behind him? Company or not - it's the toilet, John thought resentfully, heading off to look at a bedroom instead. It had been the same at the flat, Sherlock just took over the space he occupied and presumed that others, namely John, would operate around him.

The bedroom overlooking the street was small, he took a step inside intending to check through the window, but abruptly recalled something about the sounds he'd heard from the bathroom and went back. He stood for a few seconds looking at the carpet outside the door, dreading the sight he already knew was behind it. When he finally opened it further and glanced inside, he saw Sherlock leaning on the sink.

John felt the hair on his neck rise up. Sherlock held himself in an exact position, his chest expanded deeply before releasing a drawn out breath. Sherlock loved the narcotic climax with every fibre of his hopelessly addicted body. John's mind returned to the argument they'd had after the last incidence where he had finally lost patience and demanded Sherlock exercise will power. Sherlock had replied that no one ever truly overcame an addiction, the best they could hope to do was keep it at bay. John had lived in fear of it ever since but nothing had happened. Not until now.

It was pointless trying to interrupt at this stage, emotions never helped these situations. Anger, shame or supplication would all fail. But as John started to turn away Sherlock's eyes snapped open, pinning him in the reflection of the mirror.

'Get out!' Sherlock moved so suddenly that John thought he would attack him. He jumped back reflexively and the door slammed in his face. All intention to refrain from starting an argument vanished.

'I thought you said we had to hurry!' He shouted back, trying the handle. It wasn't locked but Sherlock's weight was against the other side. 'You know what's worse than finding out you've been taken for an idiot? It's realising how much time you've wasted wishing and believing in somebody when all that time they've been hiding away in some dump going to seed!' John kicked the door with impatience and retreated to the banister overlooking the stairs. He needed to calm down.

Well, really what he needed was to get over Sherlock and his absurd eccentricity. Should have stopped caring a long time ago. But he couldn't; Sherlock was too brilliant not to care. He'd chosen to do whatever it took to protect Sherlock from himself, from his boredom, his own self destruction. Shooting the cabbie, grabbing Moriarty, when he'd thought about it afterwards, it seemed like lunacy to risk so much, but the choice had been made a long time ago now. Sherlock knew it too, of course. He depended on John being there, no matter how badly he abused that support. Really he should have turned away as any self respecting adult would have done in his place. He might have, if only it hadn't been Sherlock.

John reminded himself that the important thing right now was that Sherlock was alive. And so was he, without having to live in the empty misery of that man's absence. It was almost flattering to know that Sherlock had been watching him, that he had been there when John needed him most.

They both knew the urgency of the situation; Sherlock couldn't afford the luxury of a standoff for long. Silence was his game, the loaded gun he habitually pulled to make people react – talk, shut up, leave, whatever he wanted them to do, a well timed silence usually managed it.

As soon as John finished the thought, resentment flared again. Not this sodding time. He didn't plan on shutting up, and he wasn't going to leave. He went back and hammered on the door at head height, hoping it had made Sherlock jump.

'Stop being a bloody coward and face me!'

That got a reaction surprisingly fast. Sherlock stormed out, almost getting away except for the strength of John's grip on his wrist, skin to skin. Feeling the restraint, Sherlock reversed into an unexpected offensive, forcing John back a step.

'You have no idea what you've done!'

'Says he who chose to hide away for months doing nothing_,_ I thought you were in trouble!'

'I'm not the one in trouble. I did it for you.'

'Don't give me that.'

'You don't believe me?' John was mildly amused that Sherlock hadn't anticipated his charm would be redundant. Watching someone kill themselves in front of you tended to have that effect.

John poked a finger at his chest. 'Not when you're in this state.' Sherlock turned his head slightly, looking down.

'Are you ready to let me go yet?' John felt his aggression subside, releasing the hand quickly.

'Look, fine, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did. But you need to start giving me some explanations. I don't understand any of this.'

'Correct. But spare the apology, you wouldn't have done it anyway.' There was a silence, and Sherlock wondered whether he'd passed the socially acceptable line for observation.

'Then why did you stop me?' Sherlock noted a slight tremble in his voice when he finally answered. John always talked softly when he tried to disguise emotion.

'You want to hear it? Fine. You bested me, John. Checkmate.'

'That's not an answer, it wasn't a game!'

'Everything's a game.'

'It is for you. Even when people get hurt. Particularly so, in fact.'

Sherlock resigned to explaining himself. 'Even if you think you were going to, when it came down to the act itself you would have found it impossible to override your instincts. It would have required immense irrationality – nothing short of mental illness, and you're too sensible. It's nonsensically dramatic.'

'I thought dramatic was your speciality.' John's voice was a murmur; emotions, yet again.

'What's your point?' Sherlock asked, louder than he had intended. Talking about all this was draining, too much sensitivity required.

'If you were so certain, you wouldn't have stopped me. So which is it? You didn't believe me but decided you wanted to be found, or you did believe me and didn't want me to die? Either way you're lying because we both know I was prepared for an entirely different outcome to this.'

Sherlock didn't want to answer. John knew he valued him, the only person he had sincerely wanted to keep nearby. The one he cared to tolerate. John's easygoing familiarity had laid the foundations for Sherlock to emerge from an incessant loneliness he hadn't even noticed becoming entangled in until John presented the alternative.

Sherlock thought that perhaps he should vocalise these ideas rather than having a personal screening. A slight collapse of posture revealed that John had given up, he didn't expect an answer. Least of all, didn't expect Sherlock to admit he had tried, or indeed failed, to deceive him.

'We have to get going.' He muttered instead. Why was it so hard to admit, was the illusion of supremacy so important?

John followed him into the back bedroom, waiting in the doorway as Sherlock began shovelling cash from the drawer into a bag he'd brought from the bathroom.

'Where did you get that?' John asked suspiciously.

Sherlock looked up with a smirk as he continued filling. 'You wouldn't believe how well prostitution pays, John.'

'I take it you refer to prostitution of the mind in service of Mycroft.' A chime and vibration told them both a text had arrived, Sherlock watched John like a hawk as he took the phone out to read.

'6am.' He relayed, confused but not really surprised.

'What else does it say?'

'That's it.'

Sherlock looked annoyed. He turned his head towards the window, and finally looked down at the bag in his hands.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes!'

'Don't answer that.' John thought he meant the text until a chain of knocks sounded from the front door, right on cue.

'A lucky guess,' He jibed.

'They're making a sweep of the road.' Sherlock continued, ignoring the comment. John waited, knowing Sherlock would relent for the chance to show off. It didn't take him long to concede. 'The neighbour's doorbell.'

'How could you possibly hear that?'

'I was listening for it.'

John hadn't planned on inviting the police force in, even before a bag of cash had entered the scene.

'Now what do we do?' Sherlock gaze had gone distant, he stood looking at the empty drawer.

'Oh, great, he's on standby.' John turned on the spot when there was still no response; perhaps some cups could be salvaged for tea.

'There's too much commotion at the moment. We have to wait here.'

Abandoning the tea idea, John went further into the room. He took a seat on the side of the bed. 'While that may be an exceptional plan, Sherlock, here's an alternative. Why don't we just explain what's happened? Your brother will help straighten things out. No one's been hurt. Even if we have to go down to the station first, it won't be that big a deal. We can't stay on the run forever.'

'This isn't about the police.'

'Is it Moriarty?'

'Yes. They never found a body.'

'A body? Who's?'

'Moriarty's, John, keep up! He shot himself, that's why I had to jump. He was the only key I had to stop the snipers from killing everyone if I didn't see his plan through.'

'Everyone?'

'Everyone to me.' Sherlock amended.

'God.' John felt a distant the stir of alarm at the thought of snipers tailing them, though it was a bit late to worry about that now. 'So, he forced you to commit suicide, to complete the downward spiral.' He was about to ask how Moriarty was alive if he'd shot himself but realised it was a pointless question in light of what he'd seen Sherlock do. He replayed the moment in his mind, like he had involuntarily done many times since. 'I think I finally understand what all this has been about.'

'Unlikely.'

'Sherlock, watch it. You're still on thin ice.'

'If you fully grasped the situation, you'd be far more worried than you are right now.'

John found he didn't really care what else was bothering Sherlock at this point in time. The memory of that day was enough to cripple his train of thought at the best of times. Just because it turned out he had been right, about the parts that mattered at least, didn't make the trauma of it any easier to come to terms with. 'I wish you hadn't done it, Sherlock. I didn't think anything could be worse than what I saw in the war. But that didn't come close. Not even slightly.' Sherlock felt a redundant sense of guilt for causing John to look so shattered.

'It was better than the alternative. But it won't be enough. He couldn't conclude just by destroying my name, he wanted to separate us too. Hence the suicide, crude but effective. But I'm still alive and he will try to kill you.'

'Sherlock, are you sure he's alive? Do you think it might just be paranoia?' John didn't want to say the word 'obsession'.

Sherlock took his time to reply, knowing that the dance he was caught up in with Jim Moriarty disturbed John, went beyond his comprehension. 'I know how his mind twists, the references he gave about my 'fall' were not metaphorical. I knew what would happen at our next confrontation, so I chose the place and I picked the means. Had I done what he wanted, just died nice and quietly, he would have won. Except that wasn't what he wanted at all. He wanted to watch me weave around his snare. Do you honestly believe he would accept a victory over me if he couldn't take pleasure in it? Of course he's not dead. I admit I was fooled at the time. It only occurred to me afterwards that he fired a blank.'

'I liked your composition downstairs.' John said unexpectedly, uncomfortable with the passion in Sherlock's voice.

'How did you know it was a composition? No don't tell me. It's elementary I suppose, I wouldn't waste time recreating a piece I already knew. You've lost weight.' Sherlock countered with his own change of theme. 'You look good.'

'Good?'

'Better.' Sherlock amended.

'Really?' John looked down at himself, feeling his middle before stopping self-consciously. 'Thanks. I wasn't trying to.'

'I haven't smoked.' Sherlock said, almost proudly. John realised the compliment had been a pretence to surreptitiously disclose this information. He unfolded from his defensive cross-armed, cross-legged position on the bed, shaking his head in disbelief.

'You're serious aren't you? I catch you doing that stuff in there –' He pointed behind him towards the bathroom. 'But you expect me to be pleased because you haven't had a cigarette?' Sherlock's expression told him that was just what he had expected. 'Well, good job. Forgive me if I'm not exactly impressed.'

'You saw what you wanted to see.' Sherlock shut the drawer loudly, effectively ending the conversation, and marched past him back down the stairs.

'Sherlock.' John called, wishing he could get the disapproval out of his voice. No reply came.


	5. Chapter 5

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 5 – Losing Heart**

* * *

><p><em>"I think you can do much better than me<em>  
><em>After all the lies that I made you believe<em>  
><em>I told myself I won't miss you<em>  
><em>But I remember what it feels like beside you."<em>

_Better Than Me - Hinder_

* * *

><p>They spent the evening uncomfortably. John put a few things together in the kitchen for dinner. Aside from two saucepans most of the equipment had collected dust and needed washing. When he marched into the living room and cleared the dining table in one go by sweeping the clutter off with his hands, Sherlock's arms dropped, abandoning his study of a sheet of newspaper at ninety degrees. He glared between the heap of papers toppled to the floor and John avoiding eye contact.<p>

John set down a cooked meal for two and Sherlock quickly rose to inspect it. He took a seat and ate without question, complaint or thanks. John spent more time watching him than focusing on his own dinner. It seemed to plainly illustrate how greatly Sherlock desired to be cared for. John wondered as he chewed whether Sherlock was actually looking for something in the paper when he held it at all sorts of strange angles or if he just pretended to be occupied in an inexplicable pursuit. Perhaps some might want to appear 'high-functioning' but Sherlock just was. He didn't have anything to prove.

John hummed in amusement that Sherlock actually looked for patterns in the distribution of newspaper articles. He was probably disappointed that Moriarty hadn't tried to provoke him out of hiding. Sherlock looked up at John's noise with uncertainty, compared their plates and put down his cutlery. He sat back, apparently having decided to finish rather than risk further ridicule.

'There's afters to come still.' John offered.

'I'm fine, thank you.'

John grabbed both plates, despite not having finished his own. 'You're having pudding.' He insisted more forcefully than intended or necessary. Sherlock sat obediently while John clattered around in the kitchen, returning with a microwaved sponge and custard. Sherlock picked up the spoon resting in his bowl and carried on slowly.

'You could have explained what would happen. I can act, you know?'

'Moriarty was in earshot.'

'But you thought he was dead.' John decided Sherlock was just clutching at straws. 'What aren't you telling me, Sherlock? What are you hiding?'

Sherlock hadn't meant Jim Moriarty literally, he'd suspected there was an open radio mic somewhere, perhaps his phone had been bugged or Jim had slipped something onto his coat while he circled him. Moriarty would have tried to make sure he didn't cheat, it would have been easy otherwise. John's gaze was unrelenting and Sherlock welcomed the food as a distraction from having to reply. He wasn't going to correct John, he didn't seem interested in hearing about the truth anymore.

They sat in silence apart from the soft clatter of stainless steel on ceramic. Eventually Sherlock sighed and pushed the remains of the pudding away creating a space for his folded arms on the table edge.

'To be entirely honest John, things have changed between us.'

John blinked in surprise a few times, digesting the statement. 'What do you mean, things have changed? We aren't some bloody married couple.'

'You don't trust me anymore.'

'Is it any wonder?' John retorted. 'All right, that's unfair, forget it. Listen, we've been through a lot together, and spent a long time apart after some pretty stressful things happened. To us both.' John stopped talking, knowing he was trying to justify things again. He needed to let Sherlock talk, now he'd finally decided to.

'Granted. But you know the reason now, and it won't change anything. You had enough faith to believe I would be here for you, but enough grief that you didn't care if I wasn't. I've broken your spirit.' Sherlock put his hands together and leant back, watching John from behind their cover. John recognised the distance and metaphorical barrier as Sherlock's way of enforcing detachment. 'I think it would be best if we went our separate ways.'

'All you seem to do these days is try to break us up.'

'It would be for the best.'

'Who's best, exactly? Mine?'

'Both of us, I can't concentrate properly with you here anymore. As I said, things have changed. I'd rather you were somewhere else. You also need protection.'

'Well I don't care. I don't want to be safe and I won't be alone, spending every day falling apart because I don't know if you're all right. Did you realise how crazy I ended up thinking I was? Believing a man I saw die was still alive, that he was alone with a complete psycho hell bent on tearing him apart. So here's what I think. We need each other far more than you realise.'

'So far you've only given the case for why you need me.' Sherlock pointed out.

'Stop being so ruddy conceited! For once, just tell me the truth. Stop hiding, and trust me.' Sherlock's eyes move sideways as he looked over the pile of papers again, either ignoring him or lost in thought.

'Please.' John whispered, reaching across the table. Sherlock's gaze snapped back to the outstretched hand and John quickly diverted it to a bowl. John disliked the way his argument had ended, particularly as the man he addressed was well known to dismiss emotion as a line of reasoning. He cleared everything away, but didn't return from the kitchen.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> A huge thank you to Zacha who has reviewed every chapter so far! (I still haven't caught up on all your chapter updates!)

Huge thank you's to Erin Cumberbatch, veryloyalveryquickly, Justine Lark, hanna, Countess Ozaki D, Lexicon Of Dreams, greenboredom and last but not least, LePetitErik for your wonderful reveiws and critiques. You are my first ten reviewers and I am very grateful.


	6. Chapter 6

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 6 – Departure Delayed**

* * *

><p><em>"Hope dangles on a string<em>  
><em>Like slow spinning redemption<em>  
><em>Winding in and winding out<em>  
><em>The shine of it has caught my eye<em>  
><em>And roped me in<em>  
><em>So mesmerizing, so hypnotizing <em>  
><em>I am captivated."<em>

_Vindicated - Dashboard Confessional_

* * *

><p>John spent the rest of the evening alone in the front bedroom, with the exception of a toilet break, fighting the urge to go back downstairs. It was hard to resist being with Sherlock after spending so long apart, but he doubted trying to reason with him would do any good. More than that, John worried he was in danger of making things worse, creating even greater barriers between them. Perhaps if he just waited, Sherlock would come around on his own.<p>

A thorough search during his visit to the toilet earlier had revealed no sign of the drugs he'd expected around the bathroom, but it was difficult to rule out the possibility now the topic had resurfaced. There was still the bag Sherlock had carried with him from the bathroom, even if it had since been stuffed with cash. He would search the bag if the chance arose, but Sherlock was keeping it close at hand. That alone was enough to fan the flames of suspicion.

John passed the evening reading news articles on his phone. The shooting had been reported but the facts were ambiguous. No one had anything to go on yet, his witness didn't appear to have come forward. The woman had been terrified so it might take another day for her to work up enough courage to go to the police. Perhaps she had even recognised him? Both Sherlock and John had been in the press an awful lot over the past year, even though his role had been a supporting one. If the police did know who had fired the shot, they might be keeping quiet in expectation of his return to somewhere familiar. They'd have certainly been to his apartment. Mrs. Hudson might get some more surprise visits, his family too if he'd been ID'd.

John checked the text on his phone again, rereading what Sherlock had written before it.

_What's happening?_

He'd written the message out spontaneously, pausing before he decided to add Sherlock's initials. It had been just after 8pm when he sent it to the same number, now it was nearly eleven and there'd been no reply.

The doorbell rang for the second time that evening, John looked up from his phone towards the window. He wondered whether the police would stop buying the 'no one's home' ruse before they had the chance to leave in the morning. He didn't mind either way. It would certainly be a lot less stressful than going on the run again, and no matter what Sherlock thought, if Moriarty wanted to get to them he'd find a way and they'd be a damn site safer with Mycroft's help. But that was just his opinion, of course.

He shut his eyes when the policewoman called through their letterbox, but there was no sound in response from downstairs. Sherlock must be sitting there in the dark. It had been strange to watch dusk fading around him until the only light left was the screen on his phone. Less than half of the battery was left now. When he'd caught a bus to the cemetery that afternoon with a gun in his pocket, charging his phone later on hadn't been high on the list of priorities. Speaking of which, Sherlock still had that gun. He would have to make sure he got it back.

John fell asleep on top of the covers shortly after, and didn't see the bedroom door open just after midnight. Sherlock wore the same bag across a shoulder, over his coat. After a minute he moved further into the room, keeping an even pressure across his shoes so as not to disturb the floorboards.

He approached John who lay facing him, motionless on his side. The phone under his hand was easy enough to slide out once Sherlock had located it, but his fingers brushed the skin on the inside of John's palm and he realised how cold it was. In spite of the dark, Sherlock looked towards the ceiling, irritated by indecision.

* * *

><p>John woke up murmuring as a quilt was pulled across him. Sherlock's silhouette, dressed to leave, was lit from the hallway behind. He tried to sit up but Sherlock's hand held his bad shoulder down against the bed.<p>

'Don't leave.' He grabbed at Sherlock in alarm and caught the bag's strap, not fully awake but realising something was wrong. Sherlock hesitated for a moment before unravelling John's grip and releasing the pressure on his shoulder.

'I won't, I promise.'

As the meaning of the words reached him, John rested his head back against the pillow. His eyes adjusted to the dark. 'You were going to, weren't you?'

'Go to sleep.' Sherlock touched his chest briefly through the padding of the quilt before he left, leaving the door wide open so that John could see him walk along the landing to the back bedroom. As he watched the door close, John found he didn't mind following Sherlock's order for once.

* * *

><p>Sherlock removed his shoes and coat again, pulling the scarf open roughly. John had been right earlier, Sherlock didn't want to face him. Leaving in the middle of the night would be a coward's way out. At least he could look John in the eye when he left later that morning and it would not be on his conscience.<p>

Setting an alarm on John's phone for a few hours time at five o'clock, Sherlock settled under his coat on the bed, now stripped of its duvet. He felt surprisingly relaxed to have made the decision to say goodbye in person. Knowing John was safe for the moment, he fell asleep far quicker than most of the nights he'd spent alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 7 – The Morning After**

* * *

><p><em>"Call all your friends<em>  
><em>Tell them I'm never coming back<em>  
><em>'Cause this is the end<em>  
><em>Pretend that you want it, don't react.<em>  
><em>The damage is done<em>  
><em>The police are coming too slow now."<em>

_Losing Your Memory - Ryan Star_

* * *

><p>John opened his eyes to the reflection of dawn mirrored on the varnished floorboards below him. The unfamiliar room brought unexpected relief in its confirmation of a distinctly different reality to the one he had anticipated. The months following the incident had been filled with waking moments indistinguishable from the despair he experienced asleep, when out of necessity he had at last begun to sleep again. As the trauma had diminished, loneliness replaced it, more intense than any solitude he'd known before. The anguish of having not done enough to save Sherlock.<p>

Now he'd been released from the conscious nightmare, he was exactly where he wanted to be. Well, not this room precisely, but in this frame of mind at least. John allowed himself a few moments to appreciate the interval of stillness, contemplating mundane details of the room before realising he should get going.

John cleared his throat, trying to overcome the dryness in his mouth as he lifted his head from the bed. It took time to get his bearings; the quilt had become twisted around him. He had to wriggle over the edge to free his arms, only just in time to stop his head-first decent off the bed. He twisted around as he lowered to the floor, kicking his legs out of their entanglement. It was more effort than getting up usually involved.

When at length John emerged victorious, he stood and cleared the bedding off the floor. Although the sheets would be washed after they left, it didn't mean he had to leave the place in more of a tip than it already was. John straightened the sheets only to realise the quilt he'd slept under wasn't the one he'd been laying on last night. He perched on the end of the bed to tie his shoes, sitting up suddenly as he recalled the unexpected night-time interlude. That explained why his phone had disappeared. The duvet trick had been a ruse, and Sherlock wondered why John had trust issues? He could have just asked.

The prevailing feeling that Sherlock might no longer be there began to snag at the corner of his attention, but Sherlock had promised. While nearly anything the man said could be twisted to suit a purpose, he never made a promise without keeping it fastidiously.

John checked his watch as he removed it, rubbing his wrist to relieve the indentation as he headed for a wash. The sensation of dried sweat was all the more unpleasant knowing he had no clothes to change into. He studied the uneven remains of grout on the wall while he rinsed his mouth. Sections of tiles had been removed and mostly heaped into a pile beside the door, but fragments were still scattered all over the floor. Getting out the bath would be a hazardous occupation. Replacing the watch, John continued along the hall to Sherlock's room.

He knocked out of courtesy and leant against the door to listen but the house remained silent. Inside, the bed was bare and nothing remained of Sherlock. John went to the wardrobe and found a few items hung neatly inside, Sherlock was meticulous about his clothes.

John pulled one of the older looking t-shirts from its hanger, listening to the early beginnings of birdsong from the cemetery as he changed tops and pulled his jumper back on. He supposed he would get by, even if it was by himself again. The most extraordinary, brilliant man he'd ever known was alive and would no doubt reappear again one day when it suited him.

In any case he didn't have many options, waiting another twenty minutes to find out the agenda for six a.m. seemed as good a plan as any.

'John!' Sherlock barked impatiently from downstairs, the depth of his voice carrying more through the building than the bedroom door. John smiled and closed the wardrobe. He turned sharply and strode towards the stairs; Sherlock was waiting for breakfast.


	8. Chapter 8

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 8 – On The Edge **

* * *

><p><em>"I've been treated so wrong, I've been treated so long, as if I'm becoming untouchable.<em>  
><em>Well, contempt loves the silence; it thrives in the dark, with fine winding tendrils that strangle the heart.<em>  
><em>Your face-saving promises, whispered like prayers. I don't need them.<em>  
><em>I'm a slow dying flower, the frost-killing hour, the sweet turning sour, and untouchable."<em>

_My Skin – Natalie Merchant_

* * *

><p>As he collided with the living room door, John decided that it was possible to have too many newspapers in a house at any point in time. His knuckles and cheek stung where they'd been compacted as the door met resistance, stopping abruptly halfway open. John didn't remember that many papers by the door when he'd come out the evening before. Sherlock must have kept himself busy last night because now they'd accumulated to such an extent he had to shunt the door open to get through.<p>

Sherlock sat serenely ignoring John's undignified entrance, one ankle hooked across his knee and bouncing as he reclined on the lounge chair. The partially drawn curtain allowed a low level of light in the room, revealing Sherlock's dark hair as more untidy than usual. Aside from that John wouldn't have guessed he'd slept at all, if anything he looked worse than the night before.

John kicked at the pile of papers from where he stood in the doorway to make a point, breathing out heavily in annoyance. Sherlock disregarded it.

'How come you're up so early?' John continued, changing tack.

Sherlock's leg went still but otherwise he didn't move. 'You were having a nightmare.'

'That's why I'm up, answer the question.'

'I did.' Sherlock growled moodily. He turned his head, opening his eyes directly at John. 'You're wearing my clothes.'

John looked down at his jumper but he already knew no part of the t-shirt showed through.

'How can you –'

'Why else would you be in my room?' Sherlock muttered, pointing at the ceiling before letting his hand fall back onto the arm of the chair. A mark on Sherlock's hand caught John's eye as it moved but he thought he might have imagined it.

He should have known better of course, property rights were a one-way road for Sherlock. It was different if he wanted something of John's, at which point permission wasn't so much a matter of politeness as a technicality, if he even got that much. 'Is it a problem?'

Sherlock drew out the silence and then took a deep breath, standing up. 'I suppose not. There's a more important matter at hand.'

'Which is?'

'The man behind the door.'

'What?' John spun around as he flung the door closed, flooded with adrenaline. There was a dark heap on the floor, sprawled at an awkward angle that suggested he'd collapsed in that position. John cringed at the thought of having tried to squash the man out of his way as he came in. From what he could see of the bloodied face, it had taken some forceful hits. John looked back to Sherlock, connecting his appearance to the state of their intruder. Dried blood speckled the front of his shirt, visible now that Sherlock wasn't sitting down.

'To save your next question, yes - I'm fine.' John closed his mouth and started to turn back to the man. 'And to spare you the trouble, yes – he is dead.'

John raised his eyebrows and shrugged, somewhat at a loss. 'Sherlock, you should have called me - he could have been armed.'

'He was, as it happens.' Sherlock waved a knife in view, waiting for John to read the silver engraving on the handle before he flipped it over casually in his hand. 'M.' Sherlock enunciated the letter with disdain, looking down at the knife as though it had begun to rot in his hand. Despite his expression, John could tell Sherlock was clearly thrilled that his theory appeared to have been proven.

'That bloke could have been with the police.'

'Do you know many officers who creep around before dawn with a knife, John?'

'No, I probably don't. But I bet twenty quid you didn't know about the knife when you attacked him in the dark either.'

Sherlock paused, smirking at how well John knew him. 'It was a minor detail. But I'll have to owe you the twenty.'

'Not enough of them stuffed in your bag then?' John glanced behind Sherlock to where the bag rested against the corner of his chair.

Sherlock tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers, looking down beside him as he noted John's line of sight. 'On the contrary, as you're well aware.' He tapped it with the toe of his shoe. 'But earmarked for someone else.'

'Shame.'

'A needier cause than your own, if it's any consolation.'

'Must be pretty dire then.' John gave up the idea of a covert drugs bust, realising it would serve no purpose apart from riling Sherlock further. If drugs were going to be a problem, they'd deal with it later. 'Look, I know you don't want to hear this, but what if that knife wasn't Moriarty's calling card? What if the guy's name was just Matthew or Martin, or bloody Merlin, I don't know.' Sherlock turned away to pace as he made a noise of irritation. 'Come on Sherlock, I'm not being difficult. I'm just saying; give me another plausible reason that you've already dismissed because... you want it to be him.'

Sherlock fiddled with the knife, examining it again for John's benefit. 'Switchblade, serrated. Four inches. Hunting knife. Not for sale in the UK, Italian manufacturer confirms it. Custom made. So someone's been doing a little shopping abroad. Would have had to smuggle it back in though.

'Now the man, five-eleven. Clean shaven but cheap clothes. Petty criminal, perhaps? Cash on the quiet for a clean job. But why the knife? Picking up something like this would be pricey, not to mention the hassle of getting it over here, and crucially - easily recognisable. Not the sort of thing you want in this line of work, if indeed it actually is his line of work. Judging by the state of his hands, most likely not. So, someone with a day job, and married, by the white line on his finger. Takes his ring off to do a dirty job like this, clearly he's ashamed. So, he needs the money. Any guesses?'

John blinked, not expecting to be put on the spot. Usually Sherlock liked to run through his deductions precisely, not stop to check the kids in class were paying attention. 'He lost his job?'

'Mmm. One of five possibilities, the least likely in this instance though.'

'Drugs?'

'Nope.'

'Gambling?'

'Good, got there eventually. But the gambling isn't why he's dead. The trouble came from borrowing to cover up his debts. Then the loan shark came to collect but Mr. Smith here couldn't pony up the dough. So to get his pound of flesh, this shark set our man an impossible task. Not because he wants us dead, at least - not yet, but because he wanted to send a message, and there's nothing like a personal courier for his sort of message.' Sherlock's eyes were on fire and he watched John, waiting for his reaction.

'I'm going to do breakfast.' John tried to ignore the body on his way back out to the kitchen, hurrying from the room before Sherlock could come up with more of his 'Moriarty the loan shark' theory. He switched on the light and began to make up jam sandwiches. Experience had taught him not to pass up an opportunity to eat. When things kicked off, food was never high in Sherlock's priorities.

As John ate quickly, standing over the sink with a glass of water in his other hand, Sherlock appeared in the doorway carrying both of their coats across his elbow. He stepped forward to pick up the sandwich John had left for him and leant back on the doorframe to eat it. John saw the signs of struggle clearly now under the light, but the damage was superficial and quite reasonable compared to what the other man had sustained.

'So what exactly is this message?' John asked with resignation between mouthfuls.

'Moriarty knows we're here. He's been waiting for one of us to put a foot wrong.'

John felt his sandwich get stuck on the way down. This wasn't the sort of conversation he was used to at breakfast, usually it was nothing more exciting than the eight o'clock news on Radio 4.

'Ok, but I still don't understand why you killed this guy. By your own reasoning, he just got in over his head.'

'Desperate men are dangerous, John. You of all people should understand that after yesterday's performance. It was nothing I couldn't handle; I just wasn't in the mood for taking chances.'

John wanted to reiterate that what had happened the day before was not a 'performance', but he couldn't be bothered to argue about that again this early in the morning.

Sherlock could see he was still disappointed, it would have been difficult to miss the way he was scrutinizing John's expression. He stopped chewing, looking back towards the living room in thought for a moment.

'You're upset that I killed him.'

'I'm... Yes, I suppose. I'm upset for his family. He must have been pretty desperate indeed to do something like this.'

'Hopefully he had a good life assurance policy. The wife will need it when she discovers that he remortgaged their house.'

'For God's sake. Can't you be a bit more - a bit less...' Sherlock waited for the reproach, but John knew he was wasting breath.

'John, you know the saying about how appearances can be deceptive. He might have read like an unfortunate nobody but I wasn't going to take that chance. I would never have forgiven myself if I'd underestimated the man who killed you.'

'It's ok. I don't actually mind that much. '

'I know.'

'I'm just edgy. I wasn't expecting to come downstairs to a dead body.'

'Naturally. You're out of practice.' Sherlock smiled, and eventually John did too. It was the second time this morning. The second time in three months, for that matter.

'He certainly got more than he expected.' Sherlock offered more seriously, finishing the sandwich and brushing crumbs from his front.

'Clearly. Were you just sitting down here in the dark again?'

'I might have been. It appears to lend some tactical advantage.'

John checked his watch. 'It's just gone six.' Sherlock seemed about to say something in reply but instead offered John the arm holding his coat. John took it with one hand, following Sherlock as he finished the sandwich and pulled his jacket on.

In a quick movement, Sherlock had partially opened the front door and stood on the threshold, his eyes carefully sweeping the length of the street. The sun lent a soft glow to the edge of his hair and a slight morning breeze disturbed it. He stood aside and motioned John through, a taxi waited a short distance down the road.

Sherlock took the lead, motioning for John to get in behind the driver as they approached the taxi. As he did so, Sherlock came up behind to lean on the open door. At first John thought he wanted to slide in after him but Sherlock held up a hand as he offered to move over.

'Are you ready?' Sherlock asked instead, his voice deep but quiet. John looked uncertainly around the taxi, confused by the extent of gravitas implied by the question.

'Of course.' he replied without thinking, but something seemed wrong with Sherlock. He wasn't making any move to get in. 'Ready for what?' John added.

'It's time to go.'

'I know. I mean, we're –'

'No, John. It's time for you to go.' John felt his chest freeze as Sherlock's intention became clear. Ever since yesterday, their relationship had become a perpetual knife's edge. He hadn't known for certain which side he'd land on, but it seemed fairly clear now that Sherlock had made his decision.

'Last night, you said you wouldn't leave.' John pointed out, cringing at what the taxi driver would be making of all this right now. It sounded like a dodgy line off of Eastenders.

Grasping his coat collar together against the wind, Sherlock looked resolutely into John's eyes. 'I meant that I wouldn't leave the way I did before, without a proper goodbye.'

'Don't do this. ' John asked, keeping his voice as steady as possible. If there was no other way then he would at least keep his pride intact. He wouldn't beg Sherlock again after last night.

Sherlock frowned and looked away, his lips tightening as he shut the door and stepped forward to tap on the driver's window. John watched impassively, too stunned to make another move.

The automatic window scrolled down as the driver turned towards it, and a look of surprise crossed Sherlock's expression so minutely that John had to lean closer to the window to be certain. The pausing hitch was unmistakable though.

'You took your time.' Sherlock said, but in a light-hearted manner.

'Sorry boss, just following orders.'

'As expected. Destination?'

'Somewhere different this time.'

'I thought as much.'

'You look like you've had a spot of bother, boss.'

'Nothing to worry about.' Sherlock looked back at John who turned quickly away, uncomfortable to be caught staring so intently. From the side of his vision, he watched Sherlock walk back past the car, listened to the sound of footsteps recede as he stared out the front window. If he looked around, John didn't think he'd be able to stop himself from jumping out. Or probably crying again, that would just complete the imagery for the poor sap who was stuck driving him.

The passenger side door opened suddenly and with a sweep of his coat, Sherlock arranged himself tidily on the seat beside him. He deposited the bag between his feet and folded his arms. John's chest felt like he'd done three cartwheels in a row.

'You're coming?'

'What does it look like?' Sherlock replied, not making eye contact.

_To be continued._

* * *

><p><strong>An:** Getting married in a week! I should really be sorting things out instead of writing about Sherlock Holmes... oh well! Thank you so much to Zacha and Lexicon for keeping me going with your reviews! Thank you also to HowlynMad :-)


	9. Chapter 9

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 9 – His Fatal Exception**

* * *

><p>"<em>I don't want you to go<em>

_Don't want to see you back out in the cold_

_Air you're breathing out fades you to grey_

_Don't run away, find me."_

_Broken Open – Adam Lambert_

* * *

><p>The car joined the north circular for a short while before turning off at the start of the M1. They clearly weren't going to be staying in London, John decided, wondering how far away they would end up.<p>

The two of them spent the time in silence. John sensed an air of responsibility with which Sherlock somehow held him accountable for changing his mind about staying. Sherlock's disposition had soured in the space of minutes from leaving the house, but it wasn't the first time his mood had altered manically.

John tried to watch him without being obvious. After a good half an hour's drive, the frown relaxed slightly. John judged the flames of resentment to have simmered down sufficiently to venture some conversation.

'I'm guessing we won't be going anywhere particularly hospitable for a while?'

'You have no idea.' Sherlock muttered.

John lent forward and tapped on the partition. 'Hello?'

'Yes?' The man glanced up in the rear-view mirror briefly.

'We're going to need to stop off and get some things. Do you know any supermarkets on the way?' Sherlock let out a bark of laughter but kept his attention focused on the motorway passing by.

'Not a problem, Sainsbury's or Tesco, sir?'

'Surprise us.' Sherlock snapped, returning John's mortified expression with one of conceit.

'Why are you in such a bad mood?'

'I'm not.' He replied, just as sourly.

'You shouldn't have come if you didn't want to.'

'I didn't have a choice.'

'Don't be ridiculous.' John folded his arms, equally annoyed. Sherlock was in an argumentative mood and bickering would get them nowhere. It upset him when Sherlock developed these tempers, usually when things didn't go his way. For a logical man it seemed an absurd reaction, and this time it didn't even make sense.

He wanted to ask why Sherlock had changed his mind so at least he'd know what he was being blamed for, but if he did raise the question, Sherlock would have won. John knew he took great satisfaction in other people constantly asking him what the hell was going on. Even when he affected annoyance at having to explain, John suspected he was secretly thrilled to have his cerebral superiority confirmed.

John tapped his foot in frustration. Sherlock knew just how to push his buttons, to really wind him up. Seeing as they were on the topic of conflict anyway, it was as good a time as any to sort out the earlier problem, to hell with bloody trust issues.

'I was wondering how on earth you expected me to buy that ridiculous excuse about the drugs yesterday. You must have an even more extraordinarily low estimation of my intelligence than I thought you did to believe it was going to work.'

Sherlock's expression seemed momentarily surprised. He shrugged, although the gesture was unfamiliar. 'I know you don't want to believe it, but it was the truth.'

'Oh, was it?' John quipped sarcastically, getting into the stride of his argument. 'Everything's just in my mind then, how convenient.'

Sherlock turned slightly in John's direction, glaring down at him. 'Think about it.'

'I'm done with thinking!' John raised his voice, diplomacy at an end. 'What exactly was I left to do when you found your get-out clause months ago?'

Sherlock clasped his hands together, apparently praying for patience. 'You thought I'd given up, you were looking for any excuse that kept me here instead of coming to find you. And your subconscious mind thinks that me using again fits that bill perfectly, far better than the actual reason.

'You didn't want to accept that I'd spent this time effectively doing nothing as far as you know, and you still don't. When you came to the cemetery with your 'plan' yesterday, innovative as it was, you had no idea that I've spent all this time doing just that to keep you _safe_!' Despite his evident annoyance, Sherlock kept his voice no louder than a murmur.

'You're wrong.'

'Am I?' Sherlock replied sharply.

'I'd rather any explanation than drugs again. But as much as that's the case, I'm not buying this whole charade. I know what it looked like because I've seen it before, remember? You were breathing heavy and out of it. Stop trying to make me think it's in my head.'

'This is unbelievable... I was completely with it.'

'You were hanging off the sink!'

Sherlock hit the door to his left with considerable force, startling John.

'Everything all right back there?'

'Just shut up and get this over with!' Sherlock shouted at the driver. John sat rigid in embarrassment.

Eventually Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding and his hand shrank back to grip his other sleeve. The outburst seemed to have diminished his antipathy. 'I was crying.' He admitted, the words spoken softly to the floor.

John paused, the next retort on the tip of his tongue. Was it another ploy? He tried to relax and employ a mind-frame from his doctor-patient templates. Although he'd never expected to find Sherlock having an emotional overflow without apparent reason, that didn't mean it couldn't be true. Unless Sherlock was claiming to have been crying as a last means of deflecting John's anger about the drugs.

Sighing in defeat, John realised that perhaps Sherlock wasn't the one of them with a tendency for obsession these days, perhaps he had become far more paranoid that was beneficial in this instance. He glanced over as Sherlock kept his attention focused obsessively out the window, although John knew he was far from interested in roadside scenery. He wondered whether he should be sensitive about the matter and leave it up to Sherlock to elaborate, but that might take years if it even happened at all. Considering that Sherlock oscillated between the two extremes of oblique and direct, John thought he would change tack and match this to be equally forthright for once.

'All right, let's hear it then. Why were you crying?'

'John.' He said, his voice low in warning. 'You should be grateful I told you at all, now leave it at that.'

'I want to hear the reason.' John persisted almost casually, entirely unfazed by the detective's threatening tone.

Sherlock turned his head quickly to check John's expression, disturbed by the request. He fidgeted a bit, his crossed leg twitched up and down. When John didn't back down, he finally grew still and cast his eyes down to his own hands.

'When I heard the gunshot, I thought you were being held to ransom so they could get to me.' John's eyebrows shot up and he might have laughed if it hadn't been for the seriousness of Sherlock's manner. It would also have been immeasurably impolite to laugh at Sherlock in such a candid moment, considering this was an area of such discomfort for him.

'It was a scheming trick you pulled, John, I'd never have thought you so worthy an opponent. I admit, I hardly took it seriously at first, when I saw what you were doing. That was part of the reason why it was so brilliant, because I realised how much I've taken your actions for granted. You know how much I love a game, but all I could imagine was you lying dead beside a fake grave for the want of me taking another ten steps. And though though I had a ninety-seven percent conviction that you were bluffing, I had finally found a game with an unacceptable level of risk, even with those odds. For possibly the first time in my life, the game was no longer fun.' Sherlock's voice was a little heavy, although he showed no signs of distress, John felt as guilty as if he were reading someone's diary. 'I didn't give up everything for three months for you to risk it with such a careless, unconsidered act. I wish now that I had convinced Mycroft to confide in you. If only you'd known what was going on, we'd never be...' Sherlock stopped abruptly, seemingly realising that he was speaking these things aloud. He looked away again.

'Yes, it would have been helpful if someone had let me know what the hell was going on.' John felt his eyes unexpectedly growing warm; he looked out of his own window, raised his eyebrows and blinked strongly to dissuade any chance of tears. When he eventually turned back, Sherlock was watching his reaction. He had missed nothing, of course.

'Now I'm worried I'll lose you for a different reason.'

'Nothing's going to happen.' John replied confidently, and Sherlock offered a momentary smile at John's attempt to placate him. Sherlock had been in a predominantly sceptical frame of mind since they had reunited and in any case, John knew that his reassurance rarely made any difference. Sherlock trusted no judgement but his own.

'What aren't you telling me?' John asked at last. It wasn't much of a guess yet Sherlock's passive, unchanging look confirmed it was the right one. 'You know this guy, don't you?'

'Why do you say that?'

'I saw how you reacted earlier.'

'It was that obvious?'

'It was to me.'

'To anyone, then.' Sherlock muttered dismissively.

'I think I know you a little better than 'anyone'.'

Sherlock regarded him frankly. 'Either way, I owe you an apology, John. I believe I may have been wrong about Moriarty.'

John took a moment to digest the concept of an apology. 'You mean he's not alive?'

'Correct. Our visitor this morning was a decoy.' Sherlock sounded unusually tense. He wasn't making much sense, although that wasn't in itself unusual.

'A decoy for what?' Sherlock looked too preoccupied to reply, repeatedly clicking the fingers on his right hand in agitation. John followed Sherlock's gaze to where it fixed on the driver. 'For this?' He whispered after a moment. His insides twisted as the implications began to come together.

'I'm sorry, John. I should have seen it coming, I should have been more careful before you got in the taxi, I was so busy thinking about saying goodbye that –'

'Sherlock, shut up at tell me what changed your mind about Moriarty. Who is this bloke?'

'Yes, Mr. Holmes. Who am I?' John caught the edge of a smile in the rear-view mirror.


	10. Chapter 10

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 10 – Into The Fire**

* * *

><p><em>"When I left my home<em>_  
>And my family,<br>I was no more than a boy  
>In the company of strangers.<br>___  
>Such are promises<br>____All lies and jests  
><em>___Still a man hears what he wants to hear  
><em>___And disregards the rest."_  
><em>

_The Boxer - Simon and Garfunkel_

* * *

><p>As he saw the officer jogging back towards the car, Mycroft scrolled down the window. The man leant down as he approached, already shaking his head. It was bad news.<p>

'No trace of them but we've found a body, Sir. Unknown perpetrator, dead only a few hours, but his boot prints are all around the back. From the state of the body, someone wasn't too pleased to find him entering the property so it may well have just been a break-in.'

'Potentially.' Mycroft affirmed, knowing the chances of anyone attempting a break-in on this same day would be lottery-winning. 'Did our agents see nothing?'

'I'm sorry, Sir, all four were found dead. We think true radio contact was lost approximately three thirty this morning when the 'no change' came through two minutes late, but someone was good at their job. The signal was maintained all the way through until about twenty minutes ago when the last check in was missed and we mobilised. I'll keep your office updated with details as we get them, Sir.'

'Thank you, Sergeant, most kind.' Mycroft sighed as he motioned the driver to head off, withdrawing one of the phones from inside his jacket.

'Morning Angela, sorry to disturb. – Oh, good. – Yes I am. Abducted, it appears. – No, no sign. Please authorise the budget for three helicopters right away. – Yes, all three. – That would be helpful. Thank you. I'll be there shortly.'

Mycroft sat back against the seat, watching the city pass by with uncomfortable certainty that he already knew who was behind this.

* * *

><p>Sherlock reached over to stop John's hands from trying to prise off the door handle when it didn't work.<p>

'Child-lock. What were you planning to do, leap onto the motorway?'

'Force him to pull over! He can't drive at this speed with a door wide open.'

'You'd never get it open against the air force outside. It was a good thought though.' Sherlock added, trying to make him feel better. John tried the window, but nothing happened. Everything had been immobilised.

John found it ironic that Sherlock seemed more composed now that the situation was unfolding. He had known the sensation often enough whilst serving in the army, the way the mind focused to deal with danger, but this time the only thing he felt was dread. They were locked in a strange car with a strange man who could be taking them anywhere.

'Sherlock, we've got to get out of here.'

'Where did you recognise me from, if you don't mind me asking?' The driver enquired in a genial tone.

'Your description.' It didn't seem to be the answer the man had expected.

'Not many people have lived to describe me, Mr. Holmes.' John watched Sherlock lean forwards to engage in the game of discourse that had commenced.

'Then think about someone who's still alive. I'll imagine that you don't have many close acquaintances like that now. One less, thanks to me.'

'I wouldn't take the credit if I were you.'

'Or what, you'll return the favour?' Sherlock sneered.

As he overcame the shock and finally closed his mouth, John realised Sherlock was gripping his knee. It didn't seem the time to bring it up.

'What James did has nothing to do with you.' The man replied coldly.

'It has EVERYTHING to do with me!' Sherlock struck the partition once with his fist to punctuate the sentence. 'And you know it, Sebastian Moran.' John could tell he was keen to physically express his feelings towards the man. At least he'd let go of his leg.

The name meant nothing to John, and he didn't expect an explanation at this point either. John was positioned at an exact angle to reveal the man's mouth in the rear mirror, and he saw him - this Moran character, smirking to himself again. John disliked that it reminded him of a similar expression Sherlock often wore.

'Did you know when we would be leaving or were you waiting there by chance?'

Sebastian held a mobile up in view for a moment, keeping his eyes on the road.

'Of course, you redirected the number...' Sherlock almost smiled at the simplicity of it, before returning his focus to the gravity of their predicament. 'I imagine its handy having a well placed man or two in telecoms.'

'Undeniably.' Moran acknowledged with a nod of his head.

'We aren't without our own sources.'

'A pity there were of so little use to you both on this occasion. It was very simple to locate you. I've known your whereabouts for some time. I shall give the credit to Dr. Watson however. If it hadn't been for his spectacular visit to your late self, I would have had to invent another, altogether more unsavoury means by which to draw you both out of hiding. I must say, the headlines this morning were quite worth getting up for.'

'I wasn't hiding.'

'As you wish, Mr. Holmes. Now, shall we continue our journey in peace? I've had quite enough of you already.'

Sherlock sat back in indignant silence, John surprised at his obedience. A hand slid across the seat towards him before retreating, leaving his phone in its place. John sighed, turning it over to read the screen.

_You've given me an idea_

'I haven't done anything...' He looked at Sherlock who shook his head once, be quiet. Sherlock took the phone back and deleted the first line, adding a new one to the blank message.

_Be angry_

John looked up again at Sherlock, wondering what he was up to. He saw the eyebrow rise in impatient demand, and hoped the detective knew where he was going with this.

'Sherlock, I've just about had enough of all this.'

'We both know that's not true.'

'No, it is. I'm fed up of getting abducted left, right and centre, and what's more, I'm fed up of you treating me like a nobody.'

'I don't do that.'

'Which just proves how little you know.' John wasn't sure how far he needed to go. It felt strangely therapeutic.

'I would have crawled through glass for you, but instead you left me in misery, completely in the dark, and as soon as I find you again you can't wait to get rid of me! I don't know why you came, and I don't know why I even bother anymore.'

Sherlock gave him a dark look. 'Because I'm addictive. I'm _your_ drug habit, John Watson.'

John was stunned. He looked at Moran, who was obviously listening as he ignored them.

'Don't you dare tar me with that brush! You're incapable of understanding that people don't always act on hidden motivations, that sometimes they just care!'

'As philanthropic as you undoubtedly are, I don't need to be perpetually followed by a liability.' Sherlock removed his seat belt and turned his back.

'You really are a prick.' John had entirely forgotten about acting.

Sherlock was feeling around the top corner behind his seat and suddenly it folded down as he found the lever, Sherlock half-standing against the roof to make room as it collapsed forward.

'Mr. Holmes!' Moran shouted back, but Sherlock dived into the boot of the car, working his way further down inside.

'Damn it.'

John lent into the dark cavity where the grievance had came from, wondering what Sherlock was trying to do. 'There's no release pull in the boot. I checked the registration; this car should have had one.' There were more scraping noises as he twisted sideways. 'They've disabled the driver's release cable too.'

'We aren't amateurs Mr. Holmes, did you think we wouldn't cover that eventuality? And you needn't bother looking for a car jack with the spare.' Which what exactly what Sherlock had been doing, John noted.

'Plan B it is then.' Sherlock muttered, backing out. 'Get my bag, John.'

'What are you going to do, pay him off?'

'Don't be absurd. Look in the bottom.'

'Gentlemen, might I point out that there is little sense in attempting to exit the vehicle. We are travelling at eighty miles an hour on the motorway. You have minimal chances of surviving the contact head injuries. The cars behind us would undoubtedly run you over at any rate.'

'Naturally, seeing as three of them are yours.' Sherlock retorted snidely as John brought the bag up from under the seat.

'You're quite right, of course, Mr. Holmes.' Moran acknowledged, tipping his head forward.

'I do my best.'

John rummaged inside and pulled out a hammer, finally understanding what Sherlock had packed from the bathroom. 'Let me do it.' John said quickly, taking aim at the window next to him.

Sherlock gripped his arm before he could commit to the strike. 'That won't help.'

'What's the plan then, go through the back?'

Sherlock nodded. 'We need to get attention. People will think we're having a jolly if we start leaning out the window of a cab waving like lunatics. It's fine, I'll do it.' He motioned for the hammer.

'I'm stronger than you.' John said without arrogance, pulling Sherlock out of the way to swap places before he had a chance to argue.

The boot was dark and claustrophobic, the car juddered beneath him. Once in place, John pulled out the cover plates and detached the electrics from both tail lights, before he angled the hammer through one of the gaps and gave it a sharp jolt to smash the case on the outside. It helped to have some light and airflow to work by in the cramped compartment. There was always the chance that Moran might get pulled over, but John doubted they would be that lucky.

Despite hearing Sherlock shout at Moran again, John focused his attention on the job. He managed to buckle the edge of the catch just enough to make it rattle with the motion of the car. He shoved the claw of the hammer deeper into the gap around the latch and put his full power behind levering it apart.

'How's it going?' Sherlock asked from behind, placing a hand on his lower back to steady himself as he leaned down.

'I'm nearly there.' John felt sweat building up all over his body. He could see the road rush past beneath him through the broken light socket. The noise of the car was amplified in the boot with little upholstery to dampen it.

Suddenly the car swerved and John's body exploded in pain as it hit the side. It took a moment to get his senses back; he couldn't see where the hammer had gone. He rolled back to his front just as a gunshot fired behind him. The brakes slammed on, tyres screeching against the road. The sound of glass smashing reached his ears as he smacked into the car's bodywork again. Tension from his belt where Sherlock had been hanging on had helped to lessen the impact, but his cheek stung and blood was starting to run inside his mouth.

John realised dimly that the car had stopped. Was Sherlock ok? He hadn't been strapped in, had he hit the window? John began to pull himself upright, working through the fog of pain when suddenly the boot door opened above him, flooding in light.

He noted Sherlock's face with relief as he was dragged out across the rim. John gained his feet uncertainly as an articulated lorry passed close by, the current knocking him back a step. It was still early morning, there wasn't much traffic on the road yet. He looked dimly around, turning his head to see that three cars had pulled in up ahead. A group of maybe a dozen men were already running back down the road from the other vehicles. Moran hadn't got out yet, perhaps he was injured.

With John's gun in hand, Sherlock twisted around to face them, aiming the SIG Sauer over John's shoulder as he fired. A man shouted in response, but John wasn't sure if he'd been hit or was yelling to the others.

'Start running!' Sherlock shouted in his ear, pushing John's aching body along towards the embankment. John wanted to ask where the hell they were meant to run to from a lay by on the M1, but another gunshot cracked the air and abruptly John realised he didn't care.


	11. Chapter 11

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 11 – What Wouldn't I Do**

* * *

><p>"<em>I've built walls, a fortress deep and mighty,<em>_  
><em>_That none may penetrate.__  
><em>_I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.__  
><em>_It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.__  
><em>_I am a rock, I am an island._

_Don't talk of love,__  
><em>_But I've heard the words before;__  
><em>_It's sleeping in my memory.__  
><em>_I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.__  
><em>_If I never loved, I never would have cried."  
><em>

_I Am a Rock - Simon and Garfunkel_

* * *

><p>'ASU Alpha Two, this is Control, come in.'<p>

'Go ahead, chief.'

'Patrol has located four unauthorised vehicles parked up on northbound M1 between junctions fourteen to fifteen, Milton Keynes and Northampton. Please intercept and investigate surround.'

'Heading there now, ETA is four minutes.'

'Acknowledged, report on sight. Control out.'

'Sounds promising.' The officer said clearly through the helmet microphone, pulling out the log to make a note of the radio command time.

'If it isn't them, this SAR might turn into a search and recover. Our golden hour's long gone.' The pilot replied grimly, concentrating as he banked the helicopter right. He descended from 500 metres as they passed the first town. 'There's a lot of potential cover.' Small woods ranged either side across the motorway and eventually the vehicles came into sight along the hard-shoulder, a police car parked at the rear, blue lights still going.

'I'll check the thermal count, switching to FLIR.' The officer touched the screen between them, pressing the radio broadcast as he did so. 'C.O.C, this is Alpha Two, we have multiple suspects heading west. I'm reading ten hostiles, some of them appear to be armed. The two patrol officers in pursuit need to pull back immediately.' There was a long pause of static and the two men waited in silence.

'Come on.' The office tapped his fingers next to the broadcast panel, growing impatient. The news was clearly causing some commotion back at Central Op's.

'ASU, we're on it now. Can you confirm you have a visual on the quarry?'

'Yes, four hundred yards in front but losing ground. No, correction they've split up. One is moving off on a tangent and hostiles are on course to converge with the other. All targets are a mile away from civilian buildings and there's a road running parallel to the M1 but I don't think the pursuit will last that far. Please confirm our orders, Control.' The radio was silent; the pilot next to him exchanged a look before returning his attention to the task as he circled the helicopter around, keeping sight of the events unfolding below them.

'Control, do we have authorisation to engage?'

'That's a negative, Alpha Two, stick to the brief. Alpha team, regroup on Two, please confirm.'

'Roger that, C.O.C. Alpha One is en route from south-west. Fifteen minutes.'

'This is Alpha Three, we're coming in from the south, E.T.A. twenty minutes.'

'Have all ground teams standing by to land, await the signal to deploy. Control out.'

The compartment window opened suddenly as a man wearing heavy body protection lent forward into the cabin and picked up the spare headset to talk to them.

'Officer Hartman, another ten minutes will be too late.' He shouted, having heard the broadcast exchange through their own headsets in the main cabin. The shouting was unnecessarily given the noise-cancelling microphone, despite the rotary blades being even louder with the compartment open.

'I have my orders, Sergeant Readings.'

'So do we, and they come from far higher than base Control, trust me. Having assessed the situation your previous orders no longer apply.' He continued to shout. 'I understand you were expecting to track suspects and direct the ground teams but a situation is in progress and we need to take action. Pilot, I want you to land us in hot if necessary, we can provide covering fire. Hartman, tell Control that we are about to engage.'

'Sergeant, Alpha One will be here in five minutes. You're outnumbered over two to one!'

'I'm not going to repeat my order, I'm the ranking officer, now get to it!' He shut the compartment decisively, and the pilot began to run through the landing drill. After a moment, he looked to the side at the cabin officer.

'Do you want to tell Control or shall I?'

'I'm doing it!' Hartman snapped, hitting radio broadcast again.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes sank into the chair behind his desk wearily as the phone began ringing. He took a deep breath, his hand resting on the receiver before lifting it to his ear.<p>

'Hello?'

'Commander Beston here to see you, Sir. Shall I say you're in a meeting?'

'No that's fine, Anne, send him through.'

Mycroft relocated a pile of case folders into the drawer at the side of his desk as a soft knock preceded the door's opening. The assistant moved aside to allow the Commander through.

'Good morning Geoff,' Mycroft stood to greet him with a warm hand shake, walking around in front of the desk. 'Take a seat. Anne could you sort us out some tea, please?'

'No need, thank you. I can't stay long.' The Commander smiled genially, sitting down in the arm chair Mycroft had gestured towards. Mycroft nodded at Anne and she closed the door, before taking a seat opposite the uniformed policeman.

'We've had an update on the body found at the Tennyson Road premises. His name was Kevin Smith.'

'I presume there's a reason we're interested in him?'

'There is indeed. We ran his prints and there are two matches. The first is a count of GBH at a bookies in Green Park.'

'If I recall correctly, that print was left on the employee's glasses, which was over two months ago. What's the second match?'

'It's a link to organ trafficking.'

Mycroft was silent a moment in thought. 'So we know who our Mr. Smith was taking orders from. What stage of the trafficking was he associated with?'

'We aren't certain, some aspect of the transfer, possibly harvesting. His prints were one of the ones found on the containers we seized from the independent courier.'

'So it's feasible Mr. Smith had nothing to do with it besides moving some boxes. He doesn't sound like a major cog if he was still doing cash grabs to make ends meet. But it's certainly more to go on than we had before.' Mycroft noticed the Commander's expression become more uncomfortable. 'Is there anything else?'

'Yes, Sir. He sustained several cuts to the forearms from a fray, but there were no puncture wounds. His body has been released to post-mortem which will probably be scheduled for tomorrow now, but the marks on his neck make strangulation the likely cause of death.'

'I see. I suspect on closer investigation it will be apparent that he was suffering from alcohol poisoning.' The Commander nodded slightly, clearly happier to no longer pursue the case.

'I suspected the same myself. Well then, I'll leave you to it, Mr. Holmes. Thought I'd pop in as I was just passing through when the call came in. I hope the information will be of some assistance.'

'Undoubtedly. Give my love to the family Geoff, keep in touch.'

Mycroft returned to his desk as the Commander closed the door. He sat with one arm crossed over his body, the other covering his mouth as he contemplated the news. It was an important connection, but would it provide a link to his brother? It didn't really tell him anything he hadn't guessed before.

He had been disappointed with how the raid was handled at the time. Rather than set up a staged delivery of the goods, the police had stormed the registered address on the courier's schedule and found nothing more than a houseful of stoners and a cocktail of drugs. Mycroft thought even a layman could have guessed that a high level criminal gang would have a lookout watching the house, ready to collect when the coast was clear. The mission commander had sighted concern over the elapsed time since the scheduled delivery, and had assembled a raid team to act before members of the gang waiting on the consignment began to get jumpy.

Instead, they'd missed the chance to catch the next link in the chain. Mycroft had suggested reviewing all scheduled transplants for the next three days at any private hospitals in a fifty mile radius. Anyone with the capital to purchase an organ certainly wouldn't be going through the NHS. He'd hoped that transplants which failed to go ahead might identify medical practitioners potentially involved in the pirating scheme for questioning. Two operations that were cancelled both cited patients as unfit to undergo surgery, and it was impossible to establish suspicious activity. For all they knew, the target hospital could have been anywhere within a hundred mile radius, or more.

Mycroft had also had his staff go through medical records of known wealthy individuals, along with their past year's financial activity. Of course, most of the finances were suspect, but it had been narrowed down by some with pre-existing medical conditions and those currently on a waiting list for transplant. Mycroft had been most suspicious of a woman with chronic kidney failure and daily dialysis keeping her alive who was not on the waiting list at all. When questioned, she'd insisted that at eighty two, she'd had enough and didn't want to deprive another of the chance for life. A noble lady, if it were true, and unfortunately need didn't prove intent. It had been a long shot, and the trail had gone cold. For now, they had to monitor the leads and hope someone slipped up.

Anne came in carrying tea, disturbing Mycroft from his contemplations.

'Would you mind pouring, please?' Mycroft asked politely as she set it on the side. He managed a smile in appreciation although his hands were shaking. He kept them occupied by retrieving one of the case files from his drawer.

As he took a sip from the teacup and set it down, the trembling lessened. There was no point in dwelling on fear, it wouldn't solve the problem.

If Moran's criminal outfit had the gall to try and use his own brother in their black market organ trade, then he would rain hell down upon them first.


	12. Chapter 12

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 12 – The Finish Line**

* * *

><p>"<em>Feet don't fail me now,<br>__Take me to the finish line.  
><em>_Oh my heart, it breaks,  
><em>_Every step that I take._

_Choose your last words,  
><em>_This is the last time.  
><em>'_Cause you and I,  
><em>_We were born to die."_

_Born To Die – Lana Del Rey_

* * *

><p>'Put that on.' Sherlock thrust his backpack at John as they climbed the embankment, gun still in hand. 'Are you all right?'<p>

'That depends on the odds for making a hit on a diminishing target.' John replied unevenly, running faster to keep upright down the steep slope the other side. He looked out at the open country they still had to cross to reach cover. 'I thought Moran was pulling me out the car for a moment!'

'So little faith.' Sherlock jibed, smiling. He felt alive. After all this time, some good old-fashioned action.

'You're enjoying this, aren't you?'

Sherlock laughed as they dodged around low-lying gorse and scrub bushes, trying to pick the easiest route across. 'Whatever gave you that impression?' He replied rhetorically.

'What was that fight all about?' John continued, his words slightly laboured from the sprint.

Sherlock raised the gun briefly. 'Cover for arming.'

'Well, the things you said –' John didn't complete the sentence, and Sherlock glanced at him. He knew the element of truth in what he'd said at the time had stung John. His heart was constantly laid bare because he was far too trusting. If he didn't care so much, he wouldn't be hurt so easily. It was a problem Sherlock had learnt to overcome, until recently.

'Ignore what I said.' Sherlock replied, avoiding an apology. 'Moran knew you had a gun after the cemetery incident, but if I'd drawn attention to it there'd have been zero element of surprise when I fired it into the window. An effective way of requesting a stop when you're being kidnapped, as it happens. Speaking of which, why didn't you bring a full magazine when you came yesterday? There's only four rounds left!'

'I wasn't expecting to need more than two, how was I to know we'd land ourselves in bloody Metal Gear Solid?'

'You should always expect it, that goes without saying! I leave you alone for three months and you've turned into a pacifist!' Sherlock noted the sprint was starting to take its toll on John. He checked their progress over his shoulder. The men were a fair distance behind and they weren't bothering to take aim. It gave them a good chance, if they could keep up the stamina.

The sound of a helicopter on the edge of Sherlock's hearing diverted his attention left. Although from afar it wasn't easy to be sure, he didn't think it looked like a traffic unit, so it might be the police. Hopefully his brother's doing, or a lot of time would be wasted in explanations. For once he would certainly appreciate Mycroft's interference.

The sound of their heavy breaths and the long, pale grass passing by filled his senses as they made their way across green belt. Another look showed their pursuers were closing the distance between them. He could feel sweat running down his back, and the thick coat wasn't helping. He unbuttoned it reluctantly, pulling his arms from the heavy material and discarding it behind them. The scarf joined it momentarily after.

The sound of a gunshot hitting solid material beside him preceded John crashing into the ground. Sherlock skidded to a halt, spinning around in horror, but John was already rising. The bullet had hit the bag.

'You gave me a bulletproof backpack?' John asked incredulously, dazed and panting in exertion as he started forwards again. 'It should be you wearing this!'

Sherlock ran close alongside, watching attentively until satisfied that John was uninjured. That shot had been too close for comfort, and he knew they wouldn't make the distance at this pace. He intentionally slowed his gait to allow the shorter man to keep up and then take the lead.

'Don't wait for me! For God's sake, if you get shot...'

'Stop talking and run!' Sherlock snapped back, waiting a moment before he broke away on a trajectory towards the helicopter. If Moran's men were split, it might improve their chances. If they pursued him instead, so much the better. John had become entangled in this battle of minds, but if it came to a decision, Moran would take him over the doctor without question.

Sherlock checked that John hadn't realised he was no longer behind him, but noticed something else was wrong instead. No one was coming after him, not a single man. All of Moran's gang were following John and gaining ground, heavies hired for their large muscles and few questions.

'Idiot!' Sherlock shouted aloud at himself, halting abruptly and turning back. Their orders were John Watson, kill or capture. The shot hadn't hit John by accident, they were aiming for him. Moran didn't believe Sherlock would leave without him. Sherlock damned him for being right.

At least he now had enough space to use their last bullets to even the odds. Sherlock stopped, raising his hands as he lined up the first target. For a moment, he wished he had John's expertise here to make the long distance shots. A mark moving fast at this range would be stretching even his skill.

* * *

><p>John looked over his right shoulder as he checked on Sherlock, only to realise that he was both alone and pursued by the entire criminal mob.<p>

'Shit!' The stitch in his side was excruciating but fear powered him on even faster. This had the makings of a spectacular first new entry for the blog, assuming he lived to tell the story.

He caught a dark silhouette in the corner of his vision and looked left, seeing what Sherlock was trying to do. He heard two shots fired but didn't waste time checking if they'd been successful. Only two shots left, he hoped Sherlock would make them count. An exchange of gunfire followed rapidly, he wasn't sure how many, or even who was firing, but the next one cracked the air unlike any of the hand guns he'd heard so far. He knew that sound.

'Sherlock, get down! It's –' A shot knocked him to the ground before the sound even reached his ears. He moved his head away from the damp, smothering grass, but didn't try to stand. He writhed slowly in agony, drawing his leg up tight against his chest as he tried to overcome the pain. He took a deep breath at last, the fall having nearly winded him. The shock of being shot removed any impulse to breathe, he remembered that feeling, he'd never expected to experience it again.

* * *

><p>Sherlock opened the eye he'd closed while aiming the gun, pleased that two out of four shots had found their mark. Then he saw John's body on the ground.<p>

'No... No!' Sherlock didn't hesitate, dropping the gun as he ran with all the speed adrenaline could lend him. He would arrive first; if he could cover John they wouldn't kill him, not if Moran wanted him alive, which might be a flawed assumption. If he'd been injured, John was lost, and Sherlock knew he should get away so that he could at least track them down, but if he left John now they might never find him. Or they might - piece by piece.

'Go! GO!' John shouted frantically as he saw Sherlock approaching. After the last three months, did John still not realise he'd do anything to keep him safe? It wasn't about comradeship or chivalry. John had given him everything, his trust, his friendship, risked his professional and personal life to stand by his side. There was no question of leaving him again.

As he reached John's side, Sherlock put his shoulder down towards the ground, half lifting, half rolling John across him as he turned and stood. John drew breath sharply, clearly in pain, but he still tried to resist Sherlock's grip.

'Leave me, don't be stupid! You can't run and carry me...'

'I don't intend to!' Sherlock looked up as the roar grew in his ears, the downwards pressure of air from the helicopter began to push him back, plastering hair across his vision. It was going to land between them and Moran's gang, little more than a few hundred yards away, and was most certainly flying under Mycroft's orders.

Before it reached the ground, four men in overt, black body armour jumped down, rolling to break the short fall. They spread out and opened fire as they moved towards the oncoming assault. John lifted his head to see what was happening as Sherlock carried him, one hand grasping John's shoulder to keep him steady, the other his right leg. One man from the special op's unit went down, clutching his throat. Three of Moran's men, with no protection bar the clothes on their backs, fell motionless in reply. Bullets began to hit the bodywork of the helicopter as it touched down, blocking Sherlock and John from sight of their pursuers.

Sherlock raised a hand in greeting to the pilot as another of the sickening rifle shots rang out. A hole smashed through the glass on both sides of the cockpit, marking the pilot's death as he collapsed against the seat buckle, still holding his body upright. Sherlock shifted sideways to glance around the side of the chopper as he walked. Finally he saw what he'd been looking for. A small, dark shape perched on top of the hill they'd climbed, a man laid out flat. Moriarty's last hitman, the sniper.

As they reached the helicopter, Sherlock stepped up onto the skid and opened the door to the main cabin against the howl of the blades above them. John helped pull himself in, keeping down out of sight as he lowered gingerly onto the nearest seat. Sherlock saw the thick, dark stain around the holes in his trouser leg not far above the knee. The sniper's rounds were going through metal, glass and flesh alike. He wished he'd kept his scarf for John to tie around it.

Despite the fog of pain, John met his anxious look, smiling slightly to reassure him. They shared a nod and Sherlock slammed the door as he moved to the front. He climbed up to the cockpit as a uniformed officer disentangled the straps from the dead pilot, removing the headset. There wasn't much room for the three of them. The officer opened the far door, keeping low as he rolled the body out the other side, not that the helicopter was much cover from the sniper.

'Can you fly?' Sherlock shouted across the noise, motioning in a circle with his hand over his head.

'Yes, Sir.' The officer nodded, passing his own headset to Sherlock as he took the pilots position.

Sherlock closed the door behind him as he sat, securing the safety harness while the police officer began to run through take off procedure.

Another shot cracked the glass on both sides as it passed through the cabin. Both men looked at the exit hole, before another shot struck again not far from the first. It left a tear in the right sleeve of Sherlock's shirt, he had felt it tug through the fabric. A lucky miss.

'Get a move on!' He shouted needlessly at the officer, slowly stopping as he realised the last shot had also passed through the man's temple. Not so lucky after all.

'Why aren't we moving? There're more air holes in this cabin than Swiss cheese!' John's voice came through the internal coms.

'I'm doing it, just keep calm.' Sherlock grabbed the secondary cyclic stick between his knees and took hold of the collective lever between the seats.

'Easy for you to say.' Came the muffled reply, John trying to hide how much pain he was in. Sherlock focused on the task and ignored the comment. He'd flown a few times and would have preferred a fixed-wing aircraft, but in this instance need would have to overcome inexperience.

There'd been so many gunshots outside the helicopter that Sherlock had begun to dismiss the noise, until everything went silent. He looked to the right but couldn't see past the dead officer. As he adjusted the cyclic for take-off, he hoped the men would forgive him leaving without them.

'Oh, God.'

'John? What's wrong?'

A tap on the window drew Sherlock's attention and Moran stepped up into view, holding a gun in sight as he shook his head. They were sounds of a scuffle through the coms, John swore and shouted abuse as they took the headset away and his voice faded into the background.

Moran pulled the officer's body from the seat to land on top of the dead pilot as he climbed up, keeping the gun level with Sherlock's head. With his other hand, he shut the door and lifted the headset, speaking carefully into the microphone.

'Fly, or Dr. Watson is a dead man.'


	13. Chapter 13

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 13 – Upper Hand**

* * *

><p>"<em>Almost on and off in echoes<br>__Time is passing so slow  
><em>_Dragging me deep._

_I don't fear anything in this place we're in  
><em>_Will tomorrow bring all into light?"_

_When You Are Near - Carolina Liar_

* * *

><p>'Head north-east.' Sebastian shouted, the gun tilting towards Sherlock's chest as he eased the helicopter away. The ground diminished quickly from view as they ascended, and he glanced back through the compartment window to where the top of John's head was just in sight, hunched forward at the back of the cabin. The bullet might not have pierced his femoral artery but he was steadily losing blood, perhaps the men would have allowed him to apply something as a tourniquet.<p>

John looked up as if he'd known he was being watched, but Sherlock couldn't tell what he was thinking from such a blank expression. There was a hand on John's upper arm, mostly for show. Sherlock looked away first to return his attention to the controls. Lessons from Mycroft with the Surrey Police were coming in useful, but it had been a while since he'd been in the cockpit.

With his left hand guiding the cyclic, the other moved between switches with sequential movement, constantly under Moran's study. Some were legitimately part of the flight process, most were diagnostic and irrelevant but provided additional cover for a wider range covering the broadcast panel.

On the third pass, Sherlock's hand lowered towards it. As Sherlock had suspected, Sebastian demonstrated a more than adequate familiarity with the controls as he snatched Sherlock's wrist back in a clamp-like hold, smashing the handle of his gun into the panel simultaneously until it reduced to a mangle of wire and plastic.

'Next time, that'll be your fingers!'

Sherlock pulled his arm back, removing the now useless headset as he turned the helicopter with a thunderous and calculating temper. Moran pressed the gun's barrel against his cheekbone but Sherlock tilted his head away, in no mood for games.

'If you shoot me, we're all dead.'

'Not necessarily.'

'Rudimentary lessons won't be enough to help you land this safely, Mr. Moran. I'd hope you hadn't gone to such lengths in abducting us only to shoot me on the way. I'd be most disappointed.'

'My training most certainly wasn't rudimentary.' Sebastian sat back confidently, but based on his earlier hesitation, Sherlock doubted it was the entirety of the truth. 'I would say however, that Dr. Watson is at far greater risk of dying at this point.'

'Since you've disabled our coms, it's not much of a threat that I'm not already aware of.'

Sebastian unhooked a radio transceiver from concealment on the far side of his belt, smirking at Sherlock's reaction. 'How's our passenger?' He asked the two-way radio.

'_Accident prone, sir.'_

Sherlock pursed his lips, concentrating on balancing the helicopter out as he moved it back on course.

'I'm glad to see you're feeling more co-operative, Mr. Holmes. Your next move will be to hand over the gun you were using down there.'

'I dropped it.' Sherlock replied sincerely. 'Out of rounds.'

'Convenient. How about the phone?'

'Inside pocket of the coat I also dropped. Apologies.' Sherlock turned his head slightly to take in Sebastian's enduring expression of impatience, ostensibly less than moved by sarcastic regret.

'I've never been burdened with excessive compassion, Mr. Holmes.'

'Please, call me Sherlock. Now that you've kidnapped me twice, it's only proper.'

'I won't warn you again! If I give the order, there's no going back on his life.'

'So where do you think I'm concealing a gun, then?' Sherlock demanded angrily.

'You're lying.' Moran lifted the radio again. 'Is there a phone?'

'_No, Sir._'

'Then we no longer need the Doctor.' Sebastian observed Sherlock closely, waiting for him to lose his nerve. Sherlock glanced back briefly and saw men shifting position through the window. Abruptly resistance shot up through the cyclic stick, a strong drag current from the right turning them sideways until Sherlock adjusted the foot controls to keep the helicopter flying a straight course. He didn't need to look back again to know the cabin door had been opened on that side.

'Stop them right now!' He shouted at Sebastian, but the other man was unmoved by his urgency.

'I won't do anything you ask of me if you're incapable of reciprocating.'

Sherlock pulled the phone out from inside his left sock and held it up silently.

'You should relax, Sherlock. I don't want you putting your heart under strain on our account.'

'TELL THEM TO STOP!'

'Go easy, I was mistaken.' Sebastian spoke softly into the radio.

Sherlock's hand instantly closed around the gun, pulling Moran off balance before he had a chance to say another word to the men behind them. Sebastian didn't appear easily startled though, turning the fall into attack as he clenched hold of Sherlock's throat and continued the momentum, slamming him back against the metal chassis. The radio fell between them as he slid forward to maintain the pressure. They wrestled one-handed over control of the gun for a few seconds before Sebastian finally pulled it back out of Sherlock's reach.

The helicopter began to waver as it lost direction but Sebastian kept his advantage, watching Sherlock struggle under his grip. Sherlock had anticipated Moran would be strong; it was unfortunate that there'd been no other option when the odds were so clearly out of his favour.

Taking hold of Sebastian's elbow, he put his strength into bending it inwards, but Moran simply wedged it under his chin instead, crushing Sherlock's arms between their bodies to prevent him from resisting. Sherlock shouted in frustration, but with no room in his throat to form the sound it was indistinguishable from the helicopter's blades. The sound of them roared through Sherlock's head where the side of his face pressed up against the chassis.

In desperation, he pushed hard against the cyclic with the heel of his shoe and the helicopter pitched forwards, Sebastian dropping the gun from his right hand to catch the controls. His weight moved away enough from Sherlock's chest that he could finally take a full breath.

Sebastian turned back, looking down as Sherlock tried unsuccessfully to shove him away. 'It makes no difference which of us pilot, Dr. Watson is a dead man.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but a sudden blow knocked his forehead sideways into the glass. The abruptness of the impact stunned him, as it had been intended to, but pain spurred his muscles into action despite the dizziness. He wrestled free an arm from between their bodies, raising it in time to cover his head and deflect the second attack. The bone along his forearm reverberated with the force of the impact before it was prised away from his face and pinned above him. Sherlock registered the blur of something dark in Moran's hand along with the imminent motion of a third impact.

He closed his eyes reflexively, more annoyed than alarmed at the turn of events. Considering the immoderation of force, Sherlock didn't expect to remember it anyway. He just hoped Moran would think to stop before his skull caved in, because that really would be inconvenient.


	14. Chapter 14

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 14 – All Roads Converge**

* * *

><p><em>"I'm burning all the things you gave me,<br>Erasing all my memories.  
>I thought you were the one to save me,<br>I was so naive."_

_Right Now – Ryan Star__  
><em>

* * *

><p>The experience of consciousness was unpleasant enough for Sherlock to resist it until eventually even the discomfort became too intolerable to ignore. The intensity of pain in his temple was almost enough to erase concentration, but his thoughts kept turning insistently to his latent fear for John.<p>

There was a loose tie around his arms that made freeing them a slow task. He was more than stiff from lying in the cold. Unconsciousness had been consuming, shutting down his body efficiently to deal with the damage before shock could interfere, which left little room to register external input. Sherlock couldn't tell how long he'd lain in such a painful position.

He tested a pinch of the fabric next to his hand, labelling it as military grade wool. Surrounded in darkness, which was to be expected, Sherlock lifted his head from the aggregate concrete floor, listening to the silence before turning to his front. He stood carefully, worried the sickness of concussion would overcome his balance, but it stabilised slowly. 'John? Are you here?' His head really did feel like it was splitting, but he'd woken up, so it couldn't be that bad.

Sherlock realised his recollection of passing out was still incomplete, but he certainly recognised the hardening crust of blood which cracked as he stretched his jaw to relieve the tension. He slowly remembered the flight, and the threats. Events had spiralled out of control, far quicker than he'd thought possible. It all served to highlight Moran's aggressive volatility. It would also be fair to privately admit he'd underestimated their adversaries.

He kept still for several minutes, taking shallow breaths and waiting to hear a voice, footsteps, any indication of where he was. When it was clear nothing would present itself, Sherlock toured the room slowly by hand. Aside from a depression in one corner that revealed a drain, and the outline of a galvanised steel door it was featureless. After establishing the boundaries of his prison by pacing its width and length, he combed it meticulously to check John wasn't lying hurt, or worse, on the floor. Finally, Sherlock moved the blanket to the edge of the room just along from the hinged side of the door and sat down to wait.

'Ah, the isolation routine.' He said aloud for the benefit of his audience. There would undoubtedly be a microphone to accompany the infra-red video they'd have gone to the trouble to install. All so that morally unhinged murderer could pass time waiting for Sherlock to destabilise in the fear of dying alone, without sustenance and without light. Sherlock laughed once, deliberately. He'd been in worse conditions than an interminable lack of environmental stimulation.

Sherlock knew not to let fear prejudice reason and disliked feelings of perpetuating uncertainty, yet concern was mounting behind the bravado.

Along with some routine criminal offences, Sherlock had established tentative links between Sebastian Moran and a range of far more unwholesome practices. Scrutinising the papers received since then hadn't revealed any manifestation of his suspicions. No shallow graves uncovered by dog walkers, no swollen corpses rotting against river banks. The lack of murders had been suspicious. It was as if the criminal underworld were behaving itself so as not to attract attention. He hadn't liked it one bit, and now he had the explanation he'd touched so close to before.

Months ago Mycroft had disclosed to him a copy of Moran's file, and there on paper was a history that mirrored the one Sherlock had already written in his mind for the killer. An army man like John who didn't baulk easily at death. It had come as no surprise that Jim had been drawn to Moran's criminal outfit. It would have entirely complemented his twisted, predatory nature.

That was back before Jim had forced his hand, of course. Moriarty's choice of retribution coincided with removing Sherlock from the pulse of his London radar at an undeniably important time. Reason would dictate the timing hadn't been anything close to coincidence. Jim might yet be shown to be alive and kicking heartily, although Sherlock doubted it. He had been brilliant but unstable, and even fireworks die eventually.

Whatever Moriarty's fate, Sherlock was not in doubt that Sebastian would keep John alive, it just remained to be seen exactly what state he'd be kept alive in. Of additional but less immediate concern was the motivation behind acquiring both of them, which appeared to be an objective Moran had pursued for some time, well in excess of three months.

This was a solemn dilemma. Sebastian Moran wasn't interested in bargaining or gloating, because he was on a campaign to finish what Moriarty had begun, to ruin Sherlock Holmes. Not least in name.

The recent success of one such plan had concurrently turned Sherlock's upside down, and if Mycroft's failed intervention was anything to go by that might continue for the foreseeable future.

Pulling his knees up tight for warmth, Sherlock hugged himself and rested his head forward, having come now to the unpleasant task of considering what might be done about John.

Given their predicament, there was a need to be pragmatic about the doctor. Sherlock smirked at that thought, being logical about John. The way he often intended yet never somehow managed anymore. A part of him had indisputably been saved by the doctor entering his life, a humane side that had either wilted or perhaps lain dormant since childhood, had since grown to counterbalance his instinctively circumspect nature.

Now John might have something far worse than a bullet to contend with if he was right about Moran, they both would. The trade in non-consensual harvesting of organs wasn't known for expending resources on surgical grade anaesthetics, categorically so considering restraints satisfied the task just as well and victims were dead soon after anyway.

The shivering intensified, not solely from cold, and Sherlock pulled the blanket higher and grasped it tightly to occupy his hands. As he leant back on the brick wall, there was a sound on the edge of resonance that had travelled through it, a solid noise, perhaps a door shutting in the distance. His muscles tensed and relaxed in preparation as he stood, waiting calmly.


	15. Chapter 15

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 15 –Trouble With Bullets**

* * *

><p><em>"Come on, come on,<br>Put your hands into the fire.  
>Explain, explain,<br>As I turn and meet the power.  
>This time, this time,<br>Turning white and senses dying.  
>Pull up, pull up,<br>From one extreme to another."  
><em>_  
>Into The Fire - Thirteen Senses<em>_  
><em>

* * *

><p>The dark ceiling overhead seemed more distant under the haze of a halogen lamp beside him. It angled down over his chest, blocking out any depth of sight as John moved his head from side to side, trying to hold everything else still for the surgeon to work by. The light illuminated Moran's ethereal figure standing nearby, arms folded as he watched. Embarrassed to be observed so closely in pain, John nevertheless resisted the urge to demand he left, determined not to reveal how exposed he truly felt.<p>

'I insert now retractor; you know 'es?' The doctor's pigeon English carried a heavy African dialect, although John didn't know the regions nearly well enough to guess which one.

'Right, yes. Give me a second.' John muttered, breathing out. The nylon rope around his wrists was attached to the legs of the table, pinning his arms backwards, down to the floor. It was just as well he was tied; John doubted he could otherwise have stayed still enough for the unfortunate man trying to help, no matter how good his intentions. He'd never suspected he might go through something like this again after service with the RAMC ended, certainly not without even a local anaesthetic.

The surgeon began to separate the small wound as John suppressed a moan behind his teeth, burying his face against an upper arm.

'Do you know why you're here?' Sebastian finally asked as the initial surge of pain subsided. 'What it is we do?'

'No, and frankly I don't want to.' John replied short of breath, not opening his eyes in case tears from the trauma showed. Sherlock hadn't chosen to tell him anything of what they were now involved in, although in fairness, there hadn't exactly been time.

Sebastian hummed, sounding amused. 'Then perhaps you'll answer a question for me. Why would you still follow Sherlock Holmes after what he did to you?'

'It's not exactly your business.'

'I suppose you wouldn't think so, the subject seems a sore one for you though, Dr. Watson. Tell me, would you be trailing after that gifted lunatic if your army discharge hadn't left you such a worthless man? Can you at least admit you're only here because he took command of your pointless, meandering life?'

John wondered whether he should inform Moran that he was wasting his time. He obviously didn't know much about Sherlock if he expected John to have a violently emotive reaction to character dissection. As Sherlock's specialist area of pillow talk, John was more than accustomed to the practice. The unconventional detective had often appeared to derive pleasure in handing John an insult with his cup of tea, as if he sought to provide a balance for any act that would otherwise be misinterpreted as generous.

'Perhaps your attachment runs deeper than that?' Sebastian asked in a low, furtive voice when it became clear John didn't intend to reply. The way he spoke made John suspect the sentiment said more about Moran than himself.

'No, it doesn't, there's no – attachment. I suppose I don't see what the point of loyalty is if it's only conditional.' John replied, nervously flexing his hands to relieve the rope's pressure as he listened to the other doctor fussing with tools on a tray beside him as if he couldn't decide on what to use. John felt his confidence beginning to drop away.

'I'm sure you're aware that it is a fool's fate to show loyalty without question, Dr. Watson. You wouldn't be here if it weren't for him.'

'And Sherlock only came with us after he realised who you were. So if not for me, he wouldn't be here either. How else would you have caught him if I hadn't been shot? Who were you even after?'

'We wanted you, of course.' Moran confessed, stepping closer until he stood within a few feet. 'Sherlock Holmes would have followed in one manner or another.' Sebastian's eyes darted towards the surgeon across the table after another minute of stalling, and the man hastily made a decision on his selection of implements. As he turned back around, John caught sight of surgical tweezers and a pair of irregular looking fixed forceps which he was certain weren't standard issue.

John opened his mouth in the beginnings of a question but had no time to ask as the work began. His attention fragmented under agony of the procedure, sweat spreading across his body in waves as he used every fibre of willpower not to fight while the doctor rooted inside the puncture hole, trying carefully to pry the rutted bullet out backwards.

'I regret that you were the man we needed for this task.' Sebastian said, sounding anything but remorseful to John. 'I hear you were a Captain?' John guessed this was what he'd been leading up to all along and didn't respond. He couldn't think of anything to say at that moment anyway, but mostly he was preoccupied with holding his breath for the surgeon to finish. Moran continued as if no question had even been asked. 'I would thank you to address me as Colonel in future, but under the circumstances I'll forgive insubordination this time.'

'I has him now.' The doctor said drawing back at last, absorbed with the operation and trying to remain unaware of the interchange around him. The pain reduced to a sharp ache at long last, and the reprieve improved John's clarity as he faced the man standing over him, maintaining a vacant expression.

'Respect doesn't necessarily follow the line of command, Colonel.' The surgeon doused the wound with antiseptic without warning. Knowing it was a necessary evil didn't make the burn of ethanol any less debilitating. John found it stole his breath for a moment, but inhaled through the shock so that he might complete the conversation. 'Now fuck off and leave me alone!'

Sebastian smiled showing his teeth, the trimmed moustache curling along the lines of his face. 'We'll get together again soon. You ask that partner of yours what it is you're really here for. Be sure to tell him that for your sake, he'd better be ready to give me what I want.' With that, he turned and finally left John to suffer in peace. With a drained sigh of relief, John dropped his head back down onto the steel table.

'Thanks,' he muttered quietly as Moran left the room and the surgeon prepared a suturing needle and thread. 'You're doing a good job.'

'You welcome. I see many shot like 'zis in me home.' The surgeon looked as if he wanted to say more, but glanced over his shoulder to the men who had come in as Sebastian left. They were clearly waiting for him to finish.

'What were those forceps you used?' John asked, trying to sound interested more than alarmed.

'The's?' The doctor said, holding them up, blood and all, so that John could confirm with a nod. 'Ah. I cannot call as you say, but where I came they are most expert for horse dentist.'

'Oh?' John replied, his voice unsteady. The doctor smiled reassuringly and began stitching as John took a deep, steadying breath, not wanting to ask more.

Even without a rope tying him to the table, John thought the man seemed more of a captive here than he was.


	16. Chapter 16

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 16 – Déjà Vu**

* * *

><p><em>"I'd call up a storm<em>

_Keep you safe from harm,__  
><em>_But you only disappear._

_With a smile that says goodbye__  
><em>_I'd walk to you,__  
><em>_If I could trust my feet."_

_You Only Disappear - Tom McRae_

* * *

><p>Sprawled across the floor as through he'd tripped and fallen, Sherlock awoke mildly surprised.<p>

His mouth and chin rested heavily on the concrete floor where dirt had since formed a paste along his lower lip after mixing with saliva. With a deep grunt of effort born mostly out of the desire not to breathe dust, Sherlock rolled to his back, his freed hand tingling as circulation was restored.

'What happened?' Sherlock demanded, receiving darkness in reply. He sat up stiffly, ears still ringing in aftershock of the head injury.

Sherlock checked the basement prison in every direction of its featureless obscurity, doubting correctly that it would be worth the time. His hands connected with the floor for support as he levered upright and finally stood, inching forward until he could reach the brick wall. This at least had been expected, confirming his last memory wasn't a complete fabrication.

Growing more certain of his bearings, Sherlock turned to face the room, consecutively disturbing something ceramic with his shoe. The smell of food lingered in the air as he touched the rim of a thin, undoubtedly cheap plate which he was resolutely certain hadn't been there the first time he'd searched the room.

Although the admission had been unsettling, he'd initially chalked the blackout down to a concussion, but he held no belief in coincidence. If there was evidence that someone had been in the room, bruised swellings on the side of his head were the least of his concerns.

He wondered vaguely if he might have been struck unconscious again, perhaps in a struggle he'd hit his head on the concrete. Sherlock hoped if that were the case he'd at least put up a better fight than the last, though this didn't appear likely given the outcome.

Sherlock felt as if he'd forgotten something important. Losing chunks of time was both disturbing and tiresome. Unreliable memory was for infancy and dementia, for normal people who didn't think twice when they couldn't remember what they'd done for the last week, but now it had become a fickle mistress for him too, and Sherlock hated it.

Leaving the plate, Sherlock felt along the edge of the room until he'd found the drain in the depression, and relieved himself over it before crossing to the door. It was immaculately sealed and to its side the blanket, precisely where he remembered. Sherlock paused, moving his hands as he judged the location and distance by memory. How had he crossed four and a quarter metres of the room and collapsed with no knowledge of doing so?

After a few seconds deliberation, Sherlock snatched up the blanket irritably and relocated it to the earlier discovery. Feeling for the plate, something cold and wet brushed his hand instead and his arm jolted in surprise. He tsked at the reflex and reached again for it deliberately until he gripped the handle of a large, glass jug. Lifting it towards himself, both hands nearly shaking in relief, he took a small, urgent sip, moving the liquid across his tongue to check its taste. The water was hard and unfiltered, with a minor trace of copper from where it had been standing in the pipes. This building wasn't being used on a regular basis, so it couldn't be a permanent stop for Moran.

Sherlock swallowed the mouthful and drank insatiably, pausing for breath twice before turning his attention to the plate. There was a thick slab of cheese, dumped from a packet by the shape of it. He broke off a chunk and ate as he lifted and replaced several chocolate bars that felt identical in weight and texture. The cheese was mild and equally cheap. It had probably in actual fact cost more than the plate, but which supermarket's own brand it was, he couldn't tell. Beyond the growth rate of bacteria, he'd never had any reason to examine cheese manufacturing before. Many low-end goods were manufactured simultaneously and rebranded for different retail chains, so it was plausible such an experiment would prove itself a dead end. Nonetheless, Sherlock added it to his list because it would bother him now if he didn't find out. At any rate, neither the cheese nor the plate would be any help in narrowing down his location. So it was just as well he knew where they were.

Shifting position to sit cross-legged, his knee knocked a plastic pot across the floor and he retrieved it, unscrewing the lid and tearing away a foil cover as he listened to the distinctive sound of tablets turning over inside. Inhaling the contents confirmed a faint but distinct smell which he recalled from exploration through John's bedside cabinet not long after they'd moved in together. Multivitamin supplements, extra iron. The size of the pot was smaller and less rounded than the brand John used, which was a relief. If Moran had been in their home and gone through John's things, it would have been a step too far.

Shaking some onto his palm, Sherlock scrutinised each tablet as he checked they were in fact identical, cautious despite the seal he'd broken on the pot. Satisfied that appearances weren't masking something sinister, he swallowed three with a chaser of water. A vision of John protesting that three was excessive promptly came to mind, and Sherlock smiled at the manner with which John produced frequent yet tolerant rebukes. The thought faded as swiftly as it had come, his absence mocking the memory.

Sherlock reluctantly selected a bar of chocolate, hesitating as the smell turned his stomach. He knew it would taste so sickly his teeth would ache. He also knew the real reason they'd left food, but if this gave him the strength to fight back, to defend John if he got the chance, he wasn't going to refuse on principle.


	17. Chapter 17

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 17 – Unravelling**

* * *

><p><em>"You saw the way that I fell<br>__But I'm better off by myself  
><em>_That's the tale I like to tell__  
><em>

_Though it feels like the dawn of dead__  
><em>_Like bombs going off in my head  
><em>_Never a moment of rest  
><em>

_It's not that easy to say goodbye."_

_Can't Let You Go – Adam Lambert  
><em>

* * *

><p>Hours crept slowly along as all the while Sherlock failed to ignore how light-headed and sick he was steadily becoming. The headache built and declined in asymmetrical waves, yet staying by the wall let him imagine it wasn't as bad as he suspected.<p>

When the echo of footsteps started again he wished he could take no notice of that as well. Wary from the last time he'd gone there to listen, he nonetheless knew it would be hard, if not impossible, to deny his curiosity for long. Particularly when the best alternative was a dark, vacant obscurity punctuated with flashes of colour that only existed within the realm of his migraine.

He stood wearily, waiting for the dizziness to settle although he knew it would not subside. He reached the door with the calculated number of steps required, not finding it as difficult to supress the notion of calling for help as he had the last time. It would make an idiot of him to attempt it twice.

Pressing an ear along the hinge, Sherlock concentrated through the tenderness of his temples and differentiated the footsteps by force and gait between three men and a woman, who was lame on one side. The simulation ran in his mind while listening and her alternating scuff became a missed step. Surely enough, another man sported an interchangeably heavier footfall on one side as he bolstered the woman's limp.

As the phrase crossed his mind, 'the woman' instantly conjured Irene's portrait which attached itself unhelpfully to the vision. The crease of her forehead when she frowned as he imagined her limping, the unknown injury raising a low moan in her throat. He shook his head, banishing the thought that threatened to become more dream than reality, as much as the distraction would have been welcomed from the pain. It turned out that shaking was an even worse idea than daydreaming as the ringing in his ears amplified with the sudden, sideways motion. Sherlock groaned, pressing his hands over them instinctively despite knowing this wouldn't mute the sound nor hold his mind together but still wishing the gesture would do both.

Sounds from the corridor came through muted under the high-pitched drone. The sharp metal scrape of a bolt sliding from its latch plate surprised Sherlock, sending him two steps back as the door swung inwards. He traced the motion and primed to slam it back onto whoever stepped through. He didn't care if it broke a nose or shattered a knee cap, so long as he maimed whatever was prominent.

'Get in there.' A disconnected and aged male voice directed. A younger lad, barely past puberty, added something inaudible in the background.

If he slammed the steel door too hard, Sherlock noted he ran the risk of knocking them backwards from the room and simply resealing his own prison.

With a steadying breath, Sherlock instead took hold and wrenched it inwards out of the other man's grip. It swung with such force, the door rebounded off the wall as Sherlock stepped into the doorway. The noise froze everyone with shock, yet Sherlock hesitated at the shadow of a figure blocking his path. The corridor was as dark as the room inside, with exception of a weak torch pointed at the floor by the third man back. That was the boy; his features were just visible from the light reflecting below him. The woman had to be at the back.

When no one made a move to stop him, Sherlock advanced a step, intending to cause panic and slip past without a fight. Instead, the nearest body lurched forwards without warning, propelled from behind.

He heard a gasp as the man collided into him, the shock of contact stealing his voice. The smell of sweat was as distinctive as the height of the man's shoulders, and sudden recognition caught Sherlock off guard as he stumbled back three steps under John's momentum, struggling to keep them both upright. John failed to contain evidence of his pain, having landed on the bad leg.

Sherlock heard a stick clatter to the ground, revealing itself as the 'heel' of a woman's shoe. He reminded himself sympathetically that it had been quite a thick door.

The torchlight faded away suddenly down the hall as the men changed position. With no time to waste on reunion, Sherlock returned his attention behind them. As a man leant through the doorway, reaching around to pull it back into place, Sherlock stepped past John, grabbing a handful of collar behind the man's neck as he reached to control the futile counter attack that would surely follow.

An attack came, but not from the direction he'd expected. In all honesty, he hadn't entertained the idea that John might not recognise him until his wrists twisted with the full strength of John's weight and he dragged Sherlock off balance.

As they both toppled sideways to the floor, Sherlock started to construct an insult but got no further than a wheezing cough as John landed on his stomach, compressed his ribcage and crushed his hips into the embedded concrete stones all in one go. He pulled in a breath to try again but found the crook of an elbow jutting up under his chin, the shirt sleeve across his left shoulder pulling taught where John gripped it with the same arm to strengthen his hold.

With the good leg as leverage, John twisted Sherlock efficiently onto his front, trapping the right arm beneath their combined weight while pinning the left backwards with his own. Immobilised, Sherlock felt John adjust the grip around his throat and shift forwards to allow his weight to do the work for him.

'John!' Sherlock croaked, the word distorted and unrecognisable even to himself. Already winded from the fall, it wasn't going to be a long fight if he didn't get out of this position quickly. He thrashed his legs about, fighting for a foothold on the ground to rise or roll further. John's chin was clenched down as he grunted with the effort of keeping Sherlock in place.

Under pressure, the headache intensified so severely that Sherlock expected to be sick at any moment. He realised sourly that he might choke on vomit before he could have the undeniable privilege of strangulation, which really would be an unsavoury turn of events.

Torchlight illuminated them suddenly as their commotion brought the men crowding in for a view of the brawl. Laughter erupted from the doorway and John froze at the sight of dark, curly hair against his chest. He released Sherlock with sudden detachment as the haze of adrenaline lifted, stunned into retreat. Sherlock clung limply to the floor, trying to catch his breath.

'Stupid cunts.' One of the voices dismissed, turning to go and pulling another with him. Sherlock watched under the cover of exhaustion until their backs were almost turned, twisting silently onto his feet. The last to leave, the youngest, squealed like an adolescent at the sight of the shadow lunging towards him from within the room, grabbing the handle with both hands at once.

Sherlock yelled wordlessly as his fingernails scraped the edge of the steel before it slammed shut, resonating like a giant hammer against an anvil beside his head and sealing away the last glimmer of torchlight.

'An inch more and I'd have had you!' Sherlock's breathless, broken shout was met with muffled laughter, diminishing abruptly as the men retreated.

'You would have lost your fingers trying,' observed the subdued voice from behind. 'You stupid fool, why the hell didn't you stop me?'

Sherlock took a few deep breaths, his forehead dropping onto the door with a thump as he consigned the attempt to failure. 'I did try.'

'You could have tried harder. For God's sake...'

'I don't fight invalids.' Sherlock retorted, knowing the mere association of physically inferiority was enough to fluster John. 'It wasn't a bad effort for an old man in your condition though,' he noted dryly. 'Leg doing well, then?'

'It bloody kills, thanks for asking.'

'Good. I'd have been disappointed to let you get the better of me for nothing.' Sherlock smiled, pushing away from the door towards him.

'Don't joke, you're damn lucky you're not dead.'

'As ever, luck has nothing to do with it. I was biding my time.' Sherlock replied indifferently, the hoarseness of his voice betraying otherwise. For sanity's sake, John let it pass.


	18. Chapter 18

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 18 – Damaged**

* * *

><p><em>When I'm falling down<br>__When I'm too far gone  
><em>_Dead in the eyes of my friends  
><em>_Take me out of here._

_When I'm staring down the barrel  
><em>_When I'm blinded by the lights  
><em>_When I cannot see your face  
><em>_Take me out of here._

_Watercolour - Pendulum_

* * *

><p>'You've not slept since we left.' Sherlock realised, locating the forgotten stick. John sounded exhausted despite the fight he'd put up. 'Have you eaten?'<p>

'No.' John sighed, not wanting to think about how hungry he was. 'I just need to lie down for a moment.'

'There's food and water. Hold on, I'll bring it to you.' Sherlock offered, as he heard John try to move.

'I hadn't planned on going anywhere.' John said, adjusting the weight on his arms to even the pressure. 'But I'm not sure I can sit up for long.'

'Let's get you to the wall then.' He found John's outstretched hand and feeling the weakness of the grip held onto it tightly. Sherlock passed over the makeshift crutch, made up mostly from nail holes and splinters. 'You're shaking.'

'Speak for yourself.' John chuckled, breathing out heavily as he gained his feet.

'Actually I'm shivering, a distinct difference.' Sherlock corrected as John hobbled under his direction.

'Take my jumper, I'm not really cold.' John suggested.

'You will be without it, it's all right. Besides, think of the sleeve length, I'd look ridiculous.' John smiled as Sherlock eased him down against the nearest wall, turning to fetch the plate and water jug with unerring speed. The way he walked at normal pace gave the impression he could see something John couldn't in the dark.

John settled into a better position, shifting his foot to allow the swollen knee to rest straight at an easier angle. Sherlock sat alongside him, wrapping a blanket around their shoulders before he put an arm around John's lower back, tucking the shorter man neatly into the crevice of his armpit. John sat rigidly.

'Do we have to?'

'You're the doctor, you should know.'

'Fine.'

John fidgeted, finding it hard to relax whilst in pain, made all the more difficult when trying to do so side by side with Sherlock. He could hardly twitch without it being common knowledge. Ambivalent as ever about the arrangements, Sherlock meanwhile returned his head to its previous situation against the wall, amused by John's clumsy silence.

'What happened with your leg?'

'They… helped me. He…'

Sherlock titled his head down to the left as John faltered, trying to decipher what the doctor didn't want to say. He could tell by the shallowness of breath that John was in a good deal of pain. Their fight hadn't helped in the least; despite his victory it could only have aggravated the wound.

'You should have left me when you had the chance.' John murmured, turning his face away as he felt Sherlock's breath down the side of his neck.

'What did they do to you?'

'Nothing.' John said firmly, reluctant to offer details.

'You don't normally smell like this when we've been threatened before so what's changed this time? Did Moran hurt you?'

'He did nothing more than insult us both while asking pointless questions. He's a Corporal, and he's curious about us.'

'What else did he say?' Sherlock asked warily.

'That I'm here because of you. He also says you know what he's after.'

'I have some ideas but we can't discuss it right now, the room is under surveillance.'

John laughed slightly, unsurprised by Sherlock's paranoia. 'You're just being dramatic.'

'They'd have had to set the network up quickly so we might be able to find something between us.'

'Sherlock…'

'They'll be monitoring the camera from nearby so they can record us, it's wireless as cables would be too easy to find, but the consistency of the walls means the network has a limited range. However, if you can sit on my shoulders you'd be able to reach the ceiling and it's just be a matter of time before we find it.' He glanced thoughtfully up in the dark, wondering where the most likely place to start looking would be.

'Sherlock, there's no camera. It's some abandoned, industrial warehouse with a very old 'to let' sign at the front of the driveway. I saw where they unpacked their gear and turned a corner office into an operating room. There's no camera and there are no tapes, I promise you.' Sherlock digested the information in silence.

'They let you see how we got here?'

'Of course not, they only sat me up as we turned off the road. God knows where the hell we are now.'

'One could take an educated guess.' Sherlock took John's silence as an open invitation. 'Assuming the EC145 deployed on a full tank, it took the crew two hours to find us, based on the fuel remaining when we boarded. That in turn would have given Moran perhaps an hour's worth of flight to reach a destination at cruising speed, less if he went faster, but based on the trajectory I'd put us near Peterborough. Now, there's a small airport south of the town and I was thinking they would have had to dump the helicopter there to get shot of it as a two thousand kilogram aircraft isn't the easiest thing to disguise from a search patrol above, and although stealing a helicopter is a quick escape route it has probably proved more of a liability in the long run. Have some water.'

Sherlock urged the jug into John's hands, giving him time to drink. 'Just because you're being held captive doesn't mean calories don't count.' Sherlock admonished as John chain-ate three bars of chocolate.

'I've not had this much in one go since I was a kid!'

'Well, make the most of it because this arrangement isn't going to last.' Sherlock said pragmatically. 'It's too cold for us to stay here much longer. Hypothermia would only be detrimental to their... Well. I suppose I should fill you in first.'

'It would have been nice about forty-eight hours ago.'

'You'd rather I didn't bother, then?'

'You don't have to explain the association between a crudely mocked up operating room together with an inhumane lack of analgesic to me, Sherlock.'

'Ah, the bullet.' Sherlock dismissed, ostensibly lacking emotional feedback for invasive surgery without anaesthetic.

'Yes, the sodding bullet, Sherlock! Which some poor, bloody horse dentist just took out my leg. You know, I reckon you'd actually benefit from getting shot at some point, it would improve your bedside manner immeasurably.' John snapped, before Sherlock could respond. 'And on this occasion, it wasn't hard to put two and two together, even for me.'

'I see.' Sherlock said slowly, noting that John failed to enquire whether he'd even been shot before. 'Well, you have a commendable handle on the basics, as usual.'

'But?'

'But what?'

'There's always a 'but', Sherlock.'

'Not always. You're completely right, it's just a run-of-the-mill, organ-trafficking operation.' Sherlock muttered, breaking off more cheese.

'Sounds like a blast. I suppose a head's up was out of the question?'

'Don't be petulant, John. Sometimes it's better to remain ignorant. Anyway, if I'd known the 'M' on that knife stood for Moran I'd have said something earlier.'

'I doubt it.' John replied cynically. Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face in impatience, more annoyed at knowing John's lack of faith was probably well-founded. 'Speaking of children-'

'Which we aren't.'

'Childishness in general … I hear you've regressed into notions of reproducing again since I've been away?'

John spluttered on the sip of water he'd taken, unsure whether Sherlock knew or was simply bluffing. He set the half-empty jug down carefully on the floor to wipe his chin. 'You didn't put me off the first time. I only stopped arguing to shut you up.'

'Pity.' Hearing the unspoken condemnation, John cleared his throat and took a breath to reply but Sherlock continued before he had the chance. 'I know you think I'm entirely epicene and uninterested when it comes to sex, but I do actually understand.'

'Oh?' John murmured, knowing Sherlock was fully aware that he wouldn't know what epicene meant, and even less happy to hear him mentioning sex.

'Certainly.' Sherlock replied with confidence. 'You can't help being a product of your own instinct. Underneath civilisation, we're just animals, after all.' Despite his use of the first person plural, John was quite confident Sherlock wasn't extending the 'we' to include himself.

'Here we go again. Look, just because we live together doesn't mean I'm going to spend the rest of my life living like a couple of sad-o's who couldn't get two dates in a row.'

Sherlock looked away before John finished, restraining from further observation in case he made things worse. John didn't seem angry, nor particularly surprised. His firm, pre-planned explanation suggested the conversation had been expected for some time.

'You thought I was dead.' Sherlock pointed out coolly.

'Well, sort of – for a while. What does that have to do with –'

'Yet within two days of discovering I'm alive, almost killing yourself in the process, you're keen to emphasise how you won't commit to living with me when I mention offspring. It seems I've hit something of a nerve. How long were you intending to wait before you told me?' Sherlock demanded as John chuckled, more annoyed than if he'd admitted it outright.

'Sherlock.' John warned, the amusement fading from his voice. 'Don't take it so seriously. I've not said I'm moving out.'

'Not if I have anything to do with it,' Sherlock objected sourly.

'I might.' John went on, tenaciously ignoring the remark as much as he was the truth. 'I haven't given up and you're just going to have to accept it.'

Sherlock breathed out loudly through his nose. It was usually difficult to know what was going on in the detective's mind, but John found the non-verbal reply left little room for doubt. He knew that Sherlock had strange perceptions of what people should do and think, but he also knew he wasn't being unreasonable. That just made it all the more irritating to feel guilty about a hypothetical scenario with minimal chances of fruition given his previous success rate.

'You might meet someone too.' John offered, although it sounded a little disingenuous even to himself.

'I already have, so you can forget that line of enquiry. Let's just overlook the discussion for the time being, I don't want to argue. I was thinking we could go somewhere nice when this is all over.'

'I hope you don't mean – '

'No. I don't.' Sherlock emphasised. 'Just a trip. Somewhere nice.'

John had two problems with such a statement, three if he included taking a mini-break with his hypothetically deceased flatmate. First, there was no guarantee the current predicament would end well for both or indeed, either of them. Second and altogether more questionable was Sherlock's portrayal of nice. Yet appearances aside, it would be good to get away for a while. He could certainly do with a holiday. It was also reassuring to see Sherlock moving from the spate of sulking onto inducement so quickly, much more like the man he remembered.

'Define nice?' He asked cautiously.

'I thought perhaps a castle. The view from Edinburgh is –' John made a sceptical sound, which Sherlock interpreted to mean he'd probably visited already. 'Not at all comparable with St. Michael's Mount…' That met with no obvious resistance. 'I'll even let you buy the guide book without objection.' He added generously.

'Only if you don't intend to work it over with biro and post-it's after we get home.'

Sherlock looked down at John, baffled. 'I spent a good deal of time improving that book from the Cathedral. I thought you wanted to enhance your knowledge, not read the sap they feed tourists?'

'I bought it for the photos, actually, and it was barely recognisable after you'd finished with it. Even the spine was broken.'

'It's not my fault that their printing house was facing overhead cut backs, of course production value is going to suffer. However, you have my word - I won't try to educate you again without direct consent. And I will restrain myself impeccably when we visit. Do we have a deal?'

The opaque promise of a hassle-free visit would be as short lived as Sherlock's historical attempts to tidy the flat. Before long he'd be terrorising children and adults alike with gratuitously detailed accounts of history that no one ever actually wanted to know. Of course, it wouldn't make the slightest difference to the tourist's dutiful visits inside mouldy torture chambers. Who didn't secretly want to gawp at fake bodies in cages?

'Go on then, for what it's worth. Is there any condition to my end of the bargain or is this just straightforward bribery to get me to stay at Baker Street?'

'You've no intention of leaving. Now, go to sleep.' Sherlock instructed coldly.

'What about you?'

'I've slept.' Sherlock lied, deciding unconsciousness counted for as much as sleep ever could. 'Which reminds me, has Mycroft been in my room? Did he touch anything?'

'Oh. No, I don't think so. But Mrs. Hudson donated a lot of your stuff to the school down the road. Chemistry equipment mostly, some books…'

'Which books?'

'Most.' The word only came out a croak and John cleared his throat. 'Most of them. Really.' John was glad he couldn't see Sherlock's face at that moment. The arm around his waist tightened and he wondered whether it had been a sensible idea to mention anything at all.

'You didn't stop her?' Sherlock asked suspiciously, knowing full well John had been dying to clear his clutter out from the word 'go'.

'If I'd started telling people I thought you were alive, I'd probably be dressed in the latest fashions of straitjacket tailoring about now.' Sherlock tutted but said nothing more, finally allowing John to relax and rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder as he gave into exhaustion.

When he awoke some time later, the cold had sunk into his legs. John blinked with heavy eyes, disorientated. Sherlock's breathing had grown deeper but the shivering had lessened with their combined warmth. Despite not wanting to disturb the other man, John needed to move to maintain the circulation in his bad leg.

'Wake up.' He whispered, dislodging Sherlock's arm only to find the other man's weight sliding towards him.

He quickly eased Sherlock back into a more stable sitting position, propping his head against the wall only to feel lines of crusted blood along the edge of his cheek. John traced the scabs up into Sherlock's hairline and a collection of swollen distortions around the side of his head.

Inside the ear canals were traces of fluid, but without light he couldn't tell if it was clear or whether blood had run down inside from the head injuries.

He spoke Sherlock's name insistently before conceding it was having no effect, and moved him to lie across his legs, hoping it would be better support for Sherlock's head than the wall. The pressure caused the pain in his bad knee to flare up but it soon settled.

John was just laying the blanket across Sherlock as the door to the room both opened and closed without warning in quick succession. The echo rang in his ears as he fought to control the tide of adrenaline fear brought from vulnerability.

'Who's there?' John challenged, gripping Sherlock's outside arm protectively. There was a noise from across the room but it sounded more like a punctured aerosol can than a person. After a few minutes passed without incident, he was beginning to wonder whether it would be worth the effort of taking a closer look as the smell reached him. It brought a wave of sickness as he recognised it.

'Sherlock… wake up right now!' John lay down despite the pain, pulling Sherlock with him to keep them below the cloud of gas. He shouted at Sherlock as the dizziness grew, the numbing sensation deadening the pain of his leg before the other senses. There was just enough time for John to appreciate a respite from the wound before he rolled to his back in defeat.


	19. Chapter 19

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 19 – A matter of time**

* * *

><p><em>"Along the way we got divided<br>__Believe me, I'm on your side.  
><em>_For everything that could have been  
><em>_At least we took the ride._

_It's over, we're out of time;_  
><em>Delete me."<em>

_Encoder - Pendulum  
><em>

* * *

><p>The muted sound of doors slamming accompanied the men rushing to pack gear into the vehicles against the clock. Sebastian settled behind the steering wheel of the first Land Rover, preoccupied with the email he'd been trying to send for over half an hour. He would be glad to leave this place behind, technological black hole in the middle of nowhere that it was.<p>

Hearing voices, he looked up past Simon locking down the trailer outside to see the African cross the forecourt, carrying the doctor over his shoulders. It was just light enough before dawn to see him lean into the backseat of the other car, fastening John in place with the seatbelt and cable ties from his pocket. Umar returned to escort the foreign surgeon out and took a seat between the two doctors. Sebastian studied the sight of the John's hands tied to the handle over the door, thinking his circulation would be terrible after a few hour's in that position, but reassured by Umar's precaution.

Simon finished bending down to check the trailer was hitched properly and strapped into the second driver's seat. He pulled the Jeep around and tucked it in behind Sebastian's to wait as the Albanian came out with the last two laptop bags and climbed in. Now the other four-wheel-drive was fully loaded, he looked towards the basement door, waiting impatiently for the last of the team. Their number had been nearly halved at the motorway exchange. Excluding himself and the surgeon, only five remained. Sebastian held the phone up again and the email finally sent.

Austen came out from beside the warehouse at last, the detective's arm and head hanging limply from his grasp. He walked slowly under Sherlock's weight, being less bulky than Umar although his marksmanship more than made up for the shortcoming. Sebastian twisted around as Detlev, the young German kid, opened the far passenger door and climbed across to help shift the taller man into place.

Sherlock's face was white and looked even paler for the dried blood. Despite this, the grey shirt was managing to hide the filth streaked over it quite well.

'He's cold.' Austen commented as he pulled Sherlock's arms together and tightened the cable tie around the wrists.

'Cover him up.' Sebastian turned back to start the engine and switched the air-con up as high as it would go. Austen climbed in beside him, taking the satnav out from inside the dashboard. 'Keep a good eye on him.' He instructed the young man in the back.

A message finally came through, and Austen took the phone to program the post code in.

'About fucking time.' Sebastian grumbled, spinning the tyres as he pulled away sharply.

* * *

><p>Mycroft stepped out of the car, following after the team as they infiltrated the warehouse, yet already knowing they were too late. He glanced in closer detail at the tyre marks in the gravel, out of place with the disused building. At least he knew they had the right place.<p>

He stood for a moment longer, looking for signs of anything left behind, but the yard was barren and Mycroft moved after the forensic officers as they headed inside. Two pulled out UV lamps and began to comb the warehouse floor while the others started a visual inspection. Mycroft carried on past them, following the raid team as they moved out into a corridor and down towards the basement.

As they descended, it grew pitch black and torch light flashed back and forth across the walls, illuminating the damp and an occasional spider web draped from the ceiling. There were a few alcoves where empty crates had been piled haphazardly, disused relics of the building's former tenant. A door came into sight towards the end, standing ajar with a hollow darkness beyond. Mycroft made his way to the front of the team, borrowing a torch and stepping quietly into the room, scanning it with the light. The relief of finding no one counterbalanced the dread of being no closer to reaching his brother. Although they'd traced the vehicles to the area, there wasn't much point getting there after the party.

'Over here, Sir.' An officer called and Mycroft turned to examine the corner where he stood, flicking his own torch between the items in turn, all mundane objects that nonetheless signified a great deal by their presence.

'Still alive.' He said aloud, reassuring himself of the fact. There was a thin stick on the ground nearby which Mycroft dismissed after checking it for signs of impact, it had at least not been a weapon, though possibly a crutch by the dirt on one end. Two other stains on the ground were more troubling, and he was almost certain they were blood. The layer of dusty grime had been disturbed into some unusual patterns, signs of impact, scraping and perhaps rolling across the floor implied some noteworthy action had taken place inside the room.

As he trod carefully, piecing together the outlines, he found it. Written clearly in the dust, the words stood out like a beacon. Mycroft's hands tightened so hard the torch light quivered on the floor.

'Mycroft?' Lestrade questioned, leaning into the room. 'There's blood in the room upstairs, and we've found – what is it?' Seeing Mycroft frozen in a half crouch in front of a wall, Lestrade crossed the room towards him, but the elder Holmes brother turned away. Marching swiftly towards the car, he swept through the dark corridor, officers moved out of his path without prompting. A rush of footsteps signalled Lestrade jogging to catch up.

Mycroft searched for a phone, any of them. He knew the number by memory because they weren't authorised to store it otherwise. He touched the call button, and counted the ring tones as he waited for the connection. The call was accepted without greeting.

'I need to call in that favour as a matter of urgency. I apologise for ringing at this hour, but your help is essential.' He spoke as steadily as he could manage, and listened to silence in response. After a moment, the line hung up. Mycroft stared at the device in disappointment, having hoped for a little more. As Lestrade followed him outside, he pocketed the phone and withdrew another. The driver returned to his seat as he caught sight of Mycroft, more than used to the brevity of his visits.

'Greg, can I leave you to it? I need to attend to something.'

'Up here?' The DI slowed down, planting hands against hips as he looked back towards the warehouse briefly. 'All right, I'll call you if I get any news. I'm in touch with Cambridgeshire's Chief Constable; he's drafted in patrols from Thames Valley and Essex.'

'Good.' Mycroft acknowledged indifferently, not slowing his path to the car.

'Licence recognition will pick them up at the next major road.' Greg raised his voice as Mycroft opened the door. 'Now they're on the run, it's only a matter of time.'

'You're doing a fine job.' Came the rushed and somewhat passé reply as Mycroft disappeared behind a darkened glass window. Greg stood watching the black Mercedes wind down the lane towards the main road, looking as out of place as a deer on ice. He turned back, wondering why the volatility of a Holmes family member was of any surprise after all these years.

It was typical really, he thought, watching the members of the team examining the expanse of the warehouse and document evidence. No one would have been better suited to locating kidnapped victims than Sherlock, and the moment it turned out he was still alive, he'd gone and got himself abducted.


	20. Chapter 20

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 20 – B&B... almost.**

* * *

><p>"<em>One track mind, one track heart,<br>__If I fail - I'll fall apart.  
><em>_Maybe it is all a test,  
><em>'_Cause I feel like I'm the worst,  
><em>_So I always act like I'm the best.__"_

_Oh No! – Marina and the Diamonds_

* * *

><p>Pain flooded back into awareness as John felt blood rushing to his head from hanging upside down. A car door slammed nearby and he lurched fully awake, eyes opening to a paved path travelling beneath. It framed the backdrop to a pair of black Reeboks, belonging to the man whose shoulder he now found himself across.<p>

John lifted his head, searching for Sherlock but seeing four men following behind instead, the black surgeon head down amongst them. Hearing footsteps in the other direction, John bent to see Moran in front, Sherlock still unconscious and carried in his arms. They were heading towards what looked like a remote farmhouse, half hidden behind trees that lined the driveway down towards it. There was some sort of storehouse or barn behind that, large and structurally unsafe given the yellow tape plastered across the doorway and windows.

It was difficult to make out whilst upside down, but the problem soon resolved itself when the man transporting him stopped dead and dislodged John to the ground without warning. He gasped aloud in pain, despite landing on grass beside the path. It softened the fall but did little to prevent aggravating his injury.

'If you're awake, you can carry yourself.' He was informed, with a kick to the shoulder to punctuate the statement. John kept his gaze downcast but could see the man's shadow over him as he struggled to get upright with his hands tied together. The group behind caught up and passed by, arms full of bags and storage crates.

'Agim!' The man turned to his name in time to receive three stacked boxes as they were offloaded. 'You can take these seeing as you've got your arms free now. Get going.' The advancing man overlooked the sour glare received in reply and focused on John's efforts to stand. He grabbed an elbow and pulled him upright in one, quick motion that left John's head swimming. 'Lean on me if you need to.' He offered, but John moved his hands away, refusing contact.

'I'll be fine.' He dismissed and grimly began to limp after the others.

* * *

><p>The sprawling bungalow inside was both homely and barren at the same time. There were tell-tale signs that it had been abandoned in a hurry, most likely repossessed. Rectangular stains remained on walls where pictures had once hung. Much of the furniture was also left behind; large items that couldn't be easily transported. A wide, expensive looking display cabinet stood near-empty in the hallway.<p>

John took as much in as he could as they led him through to a small en-suite bedroom with the instruction to wash and rest, neither of which he intended to argue about. An hour or so later, a bowl of tepid baked beans was offered and he ate it without comment. An African sat against the door, guarding his actions from inside and ignoring attempts at conversation. John showered and slept in his presence after he'd insisted the bathroom door remained open.

There was no word from Sherlock until night fell and a deep, echoing tirade began. It rose steadily in crescendo, the words inaudible but the sentiment clear as it drifted through the walls and woke John.

For a moment, he believed they were in the flat and an experiment had become compromised, sending Sherlock into a fit of wrath. That thought soon fled as his vision steadied to find the man still watching him, but from an open doorway this time. They watched each other motionlessly for a few seconds, before the guard broke contact to look sideways down the hall. As Sherlock's voice drew nearer, John heard his name several times and smiled without intending to. By the time they'd come within a few metres of the room, Sherlock had fallen silent.

Under a forceful, two-man march, Sherlock finally reached the doorway, his hands tied in front. As he caught sight of John, his elbow thrust back against the stomach of the man to his left before turning and punching upwards with both fists into the face of the other. To their credit, both men retained a hold on him.

'John!' Sherlock shouted, grabbing the door frame as the fight to move him along renewed.

'It's all right!' John called back, anxiously trying to stand. The African stepped forward, easily dislodging Sherlock's grip on the wooden frame and he finally disappeared along the hall, less disorderly perhaps now his fears had been disproved. The black man turned and gestured for the doctor to follow.

John moved his legs over the edge of the bed, taking a moment to compose while straightening Sherlock's t-shirt and his jumper over it. He'd seen the traces of dried blood on Sherlock's cheek; someone had tried to wash him, not especially thoroughly. His hair had still looked wet, so he couldn't have been awake long. He wouldn't have even eaten.

John took three deep breaths, preparing for the full force of pain once more before he stood. It seemed the time for some sort of confrontation had finally arrived.


	21. Chapter 21

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 21 – Theft and deceit**

* * *

><p><em>I've bathed in sunshine but cherished the fading light<br>__And I heard my heartbeat falter on a winter's night  
><em>No tears for the life that you led<br>_All the things that you've seen,  
><em>All the things that could have been.<br>_Well, I've been everything I want to be.  
><em>Save your tears for the ones left behind.<em>_____

_No Tears – James Blunt  
><em>

* * *

><p>Within a few steps, blood was congealing into the gauze as the fresh scab stretched and split. A first-aid bag below the bathroom sink had provided enough basics to redress his leg after the shower, but he didn't want to assume the opportunity to change it would be offered again.<p>

With a groan he stopped limping, and shuffled to the wall. Sweat prickled John's back as he leant to rearrange the ill-fitting bandage. Driving him to distraction with the need to itch, he plucked it away from the skin through his trousers, but where the plasma had crusted dry it stung more to move than leave alone.

John sighed and dropped his head, trying to muster enough discipline to continue. The worn carpet beneath him was briefly distracting, a more appalling pattern he was certain he'd never witnessed before. It could have made Mary Poppins' carpet bag look stylish in comparison.

Before long, the African escort enforced progress on his ever-lengthening journey with a heavy pat on the shoulder, and John resumed his walk. This time, he walked through the pain, refusing to let them see how affected he still was, days later. A slate-tiled kitchen succeeded the hallway and John paused against a large dining table in the centre, his chest expanded shakily from the effort of mimicking normal movement.

A murmur of voices drifted through a doorway behind him on the right, John drew himself up straighter as he caught sight of Moran watching from the sitting room's far end. The Albanian who'd ditched him in the drive that morning, stood talking a few feet away, but the Colonel seemed more interested in him than what the other guy had to say.

John glanced down at his shaking arm, thinking the tremor had returned only to see a white-knuckled grip on the table had more to do with it than stress. He rubbed the wrist cathartically, scouting the kitchen while he had the chance. Given the semi-furnished state of the bungalow, one or two knives might still remain if he could get close enough to search the units.

Moran waved the Albanian aside, gesturing for John to come closer. The other man faced the kitchen, his expression conveyed an obvious interest in liberating John's front teeth.

'Go.' The African urged from behind and John crossed the tiles passively, imagining most of men had ducked to pass under the low beam. Usually, John's sensible side would present strong reservations at moments like these, but he'd somehow lost inclination to question the wisdom of involvement with Sherlock anymore¸ perhaps justifiably after the graveyard incident. He could hardly deny this was his own fault now, despite wondering at which moment prevailing good sense had finally taken leave.

The sitting room itself might once have been considered homely but now the fringed curtains and moth-eaten lampshades stood relic to dust and damp.

Sherlock was reclined on a cracked-leather sofa, staring into the distance like a rude dinner guest who'd prefer to be elsewhere. The scene might have looked credible, but Sherlock's blood stained, dirt-ridden clothes put pay to that. He hadn't realised the extent of Sherlock's condition when he'd passed by in the corridor, the only light had come indirectly from the bedroom doorway.

As John entered, Sherlock's veneer of apathy dissolved into action, lunging sideways from the sofa, he dodged around the two men who'd stood behind him. The black man added an unenthusiastic attempt to block him but even with hands tied, Sherlock reached his target first, digging his chin possessively against John's shoulder to enforce the embrace he couldn't otherwise accomplish.

'I thought they'd left you there…' Sherlock murmured, the words 'to die' implied by the dramatic reception. John returned an awkward, one-armed hug as a hard object dug into his rib, supporting a natural cynicism about the animated public display. John concealed the evidence of Sherlock's larceny quickly under his right sleeve.

'When you're quite finished.' Moran interjected, his hands thumping the armrests simultaneously as they unfolded. Realising the best chance to examine Sherlock's injury was about to pass by, John reached up to where the dark curls rested at the top of his long, pale neck.

'Don't.' Sherlock warned sternly, pulling away as he understood John's intention, but not quickly enough to conceal a distinctive shadow behind his right ear.

'Bastards.' John whispered coldly, wishing he had more time to assess the damage. A crescent-shaped bruise, known as Battle's sign, was almost certain indication that Sherlock's skull had been fractured. John turned his head slowly towards Moran, controlling the anger that would become far too observable if he got closer to the man.

It took significant trauma to inflict an injury like that, no one allowed themselves to be struck repeatedly if it was in any way avoidable. Even if he hadn't known about Moran's military past, he would have guessed it from the violence of such a brutal attack. He'd overpowered Sherlock without mercy or regard for the harm he inflicted. Not that Sherlock was a pushover by any means either.

After the blackout in the basement, John had expected he might have a severe concussion but, somewhat typically, the detective seemed to have ended up in the worst case scenario.

John wasn't entirely surprised after seeing the state they'd left him in. The blood in Sherlock's hair wasn't remarkably obvious given how dark it was already, but there had been a fair amount judging by the starched appearance of his hair on that side, whilst the rest of it had reverted to its natural state of wiry disorder after several days' neglect.

It was a morbid form of hair gel, and without warning John felt the thought stirring carefully supressed emotions. He tried to think of something else quickly, Moran's tan suede jacket, the pack of cigarettes he was unwrapping, the shrug of Sherlock's shoulders to find a comfortable angle, the Albanian watching from beside Moran's chair, waiting for the right moment. It wasn't enough, the memories rose up to flood him as though he'd fallen in a lake and John was back there again, the same afternoon he always saw as if three months had never even passed… the still-warm blood trailing horizontally across Sherlock's eyes like a masquerade mask, running from his nose, glossy wet hair, and almost-black curls frozen in motion never to move again, all the while a shadowy, sinister halo glowed on the pavement around him as the blood seeped away…

John opened his eyes, pressed his knuckles in hard until white flashes overtook the grotesque imagery. He felt the phone shift inside his sleeve and gripped the edge of it tightly to stop it falling out, pressing his arms back against his sides.

Hearing words spoken but not understanding, John looked up and forced himself to focus. This wasn't the time for flashbacks, he had to concentrate, to find some way to make use of the chance Sherlock had secured for them.

'Cigarette?' Moran offered, flicking open the lid of the pack he thrust out in offering. Sherlock remained statuesque, feet parted and standing guard.

'Smoking kills.' He answered firmly, to a small chuckle from their grim-faced captor.

'That's the idea, Sherlock. Now have a fucking fag and stop ruining my fun.'

'Currently indisposed.' Sherlock smiled back, raising his tied wrists but Sebastian waved off the excuse, holding one in his mouth as he lit it.

'I know for a fact that greater difficulties haven't stopped you in the past.' Moran inhaled deeply, but didn't press the matter further.

As they talked, a fair-haired, long-stubbled man stalked the length of the room's left side towards them. Easily a match for Sherlock's height, he tipped forward the lid of an old piano against the wall with enough force to leave the high-carbon steel wires vibrating as he sat down against it a few metres away.

'That's hardly appropriate treatment for an antique Monington and Weston, particularly an iconic 1930's model,' Sherlock's conversational tone concealed an intrinsic inability to withhold criticism.

'Go fuck yourself.' The man replied, equally casual as he withdrew a gun from his coat.

'Austen.' Moran cautioned, and a foot swung spitefully up onto the piano lid instead.

'So I hear we're mutual fans of _the game_,' Sherlock began and Moran leant forward on one knee, granting the detective his complete attention. John might as well have been invisible, yet the phone pinned between his arm and side felt like a glowing beacon. Most people would have been debilitated with such an injury; he could only imagine the pain Sherlock was having to control. He needed immobility and rest, yet here he was intimidating a room of armed men with his hands still bound.

'It took so long for you to hear, I got bored waiting. I would have expected us to meet sooner, given your close association with my opponent. Was he too scared to let you play?'

'I play exceptionally well,' Sherlock asserted, opting for neutrality John noted wryly. 'Although I admit I'm joining the party late. It would explain why you've been allowed to enjoy such loose reigns.'

Sebastian's moustache quirked up at one side. 'I hadn't expected your brother to fall victim to complacency so easily. After being drip fed rumours for so long, I suppose Mycroft knows no better anymore. It must have come as quite a shock, thinking himself two steps ahead all this time only to realise that the advantage had already slipped through his fingers.'

'And did it not occur to you, Sebastian, how suspiciously easy it was to get this far?' For a moment, they contemplated each other silently, Sherlock judged the other man to be moderately concerned by the statement, apparent only by his lack of reaction.

'I've played longer than Mycroft has been alive.' Moran seemed affronted by the suggestion.

'Well, I suppose playing often and badly is better than not at all.' Austen shifted his leg again and Sherlock glanced at him obliquely against the wall, suspicious of foul play.

'I hardly need to mention that by taking you both, the stakes have risen beyond Mycroft's means to afford.' Moran explained patiently, as if he were addressing children.

'It would be nice to hear what it was you did have in mind at this point. From where I stand, I only see your attempts to complete what our mutually departed acquaintance started and couldn't finish.'

'I'm sure you intend that as an insult, but I shan't take it as one. We are only talking out of my own curiosity.'

'It's not much of a game if you believe you've won already is it? As winnings go, I'm a pretty lame prize.'

'It depends on the purpose you're intended to serve, Sherlock. I haven't decided yet. I could make a lot of money from you both, but it wouldn't give the same satisfaction as spoiling you myself.'

'And you say the motive isn't revenge?' Sherlock asked quizzically, frown and smile meeting halfway.

'As revenge happens to coincide with the general strategy, I can't say I'm bothered either way. Not everything has to be complicated.'

'So Jim was keen to convey at our last meeting.' Sherlock provoked, noting the deliberate detachment Moran practiced whenever he mentioned Moriarty. Piecing together their ages and personas, the words 'father-figure' recited through his mind as he finally determined that yes, Jim's death had genuinely injured Sebastian. Perhaps because it had been suicide.

Moran picked at the thin jumper he wore under the open jacket, smoothing the fabric repeatedly over his solar plexus until finally he rose, fetching a folded chair from a stack at the back of the room. Evidently left redundant by the men he'd lost in the shooting, he extended it in front John in a gesture that might have been considerate had it not served to draw awareness to the doctor's compromised condition.

'Colonel.' John acknowledged cynically, hardly needing a reminder of his injury. Sebastian returned past Sherlock, deliberately forcing him aside with his larger presence.

John took a seat carefully, sliding a hand under his right sleeve. The outline felt like an iPhone, and was moderately disappointing given the trouble he'd had with a second-hand Nokia when he first got it. He could probably work an iPhone out, but it wasn't an ideal time for expanding technological horizons. Irene Adler's had needed a pin, he'd bet money this one bloody would too.

'I've left a message for your brother.' Sebastian said quietly, perched on the arm of the chair. 'Buyer found.' The tone of his voice was beginning to grate on John's nerves.

'Buyer for what?' he asked innocently, interrupting despite knowing full well.

'It's not polite to discuss particulars; they simply solve a problem if other prospects don't work out.'

'Do you think you're the first to try and use me as leverage?' Sherlock asked coolly.

'I'll certainly be the last.' Sebastian replied arrogantly. 'You're going to help me.'

'How lovely.'

'You've contrived a reputation through systematic selfishness and attempts to prove yourself above the population.'

Sherlock looked up lazily, as if bored to be having the conversation. 'You can hardly say I'm attempting anything when I don't even try.' In a different light, John thought Sherlock's disinterest might have passed for the borderline stages of sleep.

'Your act is translucent, Sherlock. The part I'm interested in is discovering what hold Dr. Watson has over you. He may be an assistant, but is he something more? Or perhaps you have us all fooled, and he's nothing more than a toy. We'll find out soon enough, I suppose.'

Clenching his hands rhythmically to help keep his nerve, John turned his focus towards ways in which he might diffuse the discussion. Sherlock couldn't protect them both with words indefinitely; he barely seemed able to stay conscious and although he detested interference, John had seen the fallout from Mycroft's jibes often enough to now know what happened if intellectuals were left to wind each other up. Sherlock was probably making things worse entertaining this criminal, and Moran looked too content for John's liking; the thought of finding a fissure crack in Sherlock's defences had clearly delighted him, whether or not it was an act.

John liked to believe he provided a little muscle and propriety, when he wasn't maintaining Sherlock's balance between reality and hypothesis. But what the hell was he supposed to do now he'd been reduced to a limping convalescent, besides becoming Moran's brokering piece? With no knowledge about these people and no idea what Sherlock intended, he'd put up about as much resistance as a punch bag. Less, considering a punch bag at least remained upright.

'Sher-locked…' He tried, enunciating the final consonants as loud as he dared, hoping Sherlock would remember the issue of the phone he still needed to hack into. There was no point trying to make an emergency call when he couldn't actually talk, he had to be able to text. His outburst had inevitably drawn Sebastian's attention, but when nothing more was forthcoming, that scrutiny returned expectantly to the detective, awaiting his reaction. Sherlock held John's focus with an apprehensive expression before turning away again, studiously ignoring the interruption.

'As this conversation doesn't appear to be going anywhere, would you mind if we retire for the evening? I could really do with freshening up...' Sherlock said, mocking Moran with his feigned tone of weariness.

'You have a big heart. You don't even try to conceal it anymore.' Leaning back, Moran's legs crossed with a leisurely motion; satisfied his point was now made.

'I hope you're not implying a clinical defect.' Sherlock returned flippantly. He took a step back towards John, and suddenly looked down as he realised the involuntarily error.

'And so the theory is substantiated.' Sebastian extinguished the remnants of the cigarette butt into the armrest as he rose. In four strides, he grabbed one of Sherlock's wrists in his left hand, and a fist full of shirt in the other.

'I want agents, hierarchies and codes.' He growled, dragging the detective closer as Sherlock attempted to dislodge the hold, shaking him once to emphasise control. 'I want you to keep talking until you've exhausted your repertoire of intelligence or I tell you to shut up.'


	22. Chapter 22

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 22 - Clarity**

* * *

><p>"<em>Be careful making wishes in the dark,<br>Can't be sure when they've hit their mark,  
>And besides in the meantime,<br>I'm just dreaming of tearing you apart.  
><em>_In the end everything collides.  
><em>_My childhood spat back out the monster that you see."__  
><em>

_Light 'em up – Fall Out Boy_

* * *

><p>One hand moved upwards, tightening in Sherlock's hair and jerking backwards to keep the detective off-balance. Sherlock felt his breath quicken under a tide of nausea.<p>

If Sherlock's verbal opposition was enough to incite Moran's violence, physical resistance certainly wouldn't get them much further, John reasoned, suppressing his instinct to intercede. With unquestionable strength, it was wisest not to give the man any cause to demonstrate it further.

'You're ruining my Sunday best.' Sherlock whispered back, determined to conceal the extent of his injury, or his fear of Moran's unpredictability.

'I'll ruin more than that.' Sebastian replied, turning them both to face John. 'Start talking.'

'Maybe there's a more specific question you'd like to ask? I don't have all night.' Sherlock prompted irritably. 'The first rule of government is to 'trust no one' - irrespective of position or rank.'

'So?'

'So, what's the point in telling you anything? Mycroft replaced his staff pool at the first instance of a security compromise.'

'We can safely assume his brother's abduction falls into that category.' John added, consciously drawing Moran's attention. They made eye contact over Sherlock's twisted form, still struggling for balance. Sebastian released Sherlock with a lazy thrust towards the sofa beside them, advancing on John's chair instead.

'Have you something you'd like to contribute, Dr. Watson?' He asked pleasantly, as Sherlock levered upright with his elbows and finally stood again. 'You've seen inside the cogs of the Holmes Empire. Would you care to offer something in your own defence, or perhaps in Sherlock's?' John heard the insincere smile between Sebastian's words but kept his eyes front and arms folded.

His attention was fixed on Sherlock's tied hands as they hung low in front of his hips. Four fingers on the front hand folded one up to leave three, then two, and finally all eight. Or was it nine, and a thumb? Lightening quick, it was over within seconds. _Four numbers? Why was he… oh right…the phone._

'No.' John repeated the number in his head as he looked up and sideways. 'No, you won't get a thing from me, but you already know that. We're both Army, I'm a soldier before I'm a doctor.'

Moran watched passively, unmoved by the sentiment. 'That cause severed you the moment your utility as a _soldier_ was expended.'

John had to laugh; it could almost have been a line from his counsellor's book. Yes, he was more than aware of the irony of circumstance.

'Well, you know how it is with the military. If you're a liability on the battlefield, you're putting others at risk too.' John quoted, almost verbatim from his discharge meeting. He couldn't help glancing down at the blood-stained material covering his right leg, marking his ineffectiveness once more.

'He's manipulating you, John.' Sherlock cut in, and John allowed him a small smile of reassurance, wondering why, after all the practice he'd had from the detective himself, Sherlock still assumed he couldn't recognise a manipulative character when he was interrogated by one.

Moran nodded in the taller man's direction. 'So you waste your life under the command of a maniac vigilante instead. If it had at least been for money, I could have understood.'

'I think you touched on this during our last conversation, Moran, and I still don't see where it's heading.'

Sherlock began to walk forwards. 'Might I also add that as the second most logically motivated individual you're ever come across, 'maniac' could not be further from the truth. If you want to talk lunatics, move the lens a little closer to home. Do you even know why Jim killed himself?'

Under Sherlock's advance, the Albanian removed himself hastily to the side wall away from Moran, failing entirely to make the retreat appear casual.

Sebastian gripped John's neck beneath the base of his skull suddenly and thrust him forward out the chair into Sherlock's path. John's arms flew out to catch himself and the phone clattered away onto the carpet. He swore on an indrawn breath for that as much as the pain in his thigh from the weight of falling.

The young man at the edge of the room grabbed theatrically at his trousers, searching for the mobile he already knew wouldn't be found there.

'He stole my fucking phone!' The boy yelled, racing forward to snatch it from the ground and rounding on John with a nasty expression, more malevolent than John had anticipated from his years.

'_Detlev_…' Sebastian warned, seeing what was coming, but despite having no weapon to hand, the youth had already committed to an attack. Having taken the few remaining steps between them, Sherlock grabbed the slighter man before he had any chance for retribution, twisting and slamming his head to the ground via the coffee table a few times more than was strictly necessary. Tied hands had virtually no impact on the detective's aptitude for violent incapacitation. John expected some of the other men would come to the boy's defence, but not a soul moved. If anything they looked more amused than concerned, perhaps having no desire to join their fate to that of the unfortunate adolescent.

'Doctor, if you wouldn't mind?' Moran said dispassionately, collecting John from the floor in disregard for the spectacle before them.

'Leave him.' Panting, Sherlock rose alone from the struggle and the room fell silent again to the fearsome sight he rendered, fresh blood staining the edges of his shirt sleeves and fingers. 'Or would you like me to kill them all, Moran? One by one?' Sherlock rubbed the back of his hands on his chest, trying to clean the sticky traces of blood off but smearing it further over himself in the process. He turned slightly, addressing those watching from around the room. 'If I were one of you _gentlemen_, I'd give some serious thought to where you plan to remain during the next forty-eight hours. When your employer doesn't care if you remain alive or dead while he attempts to hold the closest relative of the country's top government official, things are going to get violent, regardless.'

'Shut up, Holmes. Stop wasting our time, no one is interested. If a man throws himself into the arms of death, no one here is going to stop him.'

Sherlock's eyes drifted over Sebastian as he talked but studying him revealed nothing, the Colonel guarded movement with regimental precision. At an end of discussion, Sherlock grabbed John's jumper with both hands clenched together to pull him clear of Moran's grip but John had had enough of being an arguing point. He removed Sherlock's hands, impatient to act despite the injury.

'You're nothing more than a _coward_.' John said with force, leaning closer to Sebastian. 'If you'd fought me yourself in the first place, we'd have seen who–'

'John.' Sherlock raised his voice, pulling back a few steps with difficulty while John remained so intent on assaulting the man in front.

'Dr. Watson, that is my point _exactly_. If Mycroft Holmes had simply dealt with me himself instead of shifting Sherlock around in front of him like a sacrificial chess piece, you wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. And you, Dr. Watson. He told me all about _you_.'

'Oh, give it a rest.' John snapped irritably, looking back at Sherlock who had grown unexpectedly quiet.

'Mycroft was counting on us to take you so that he might set Sherlock to follow after like a bloodhound, leading him to us. You might be a fickle dog for your brother to control, Sherlock Holmes, but without a doubt he still holds your leash. All I've been wondering was what Mycroft said to keep you at that house, all this time? It would be such poetic justice if he said it was to keep your friends safe, all the while feeding out tip-offs about where a person might look to find you, if they hand a mind.'

Sherlock was stock still, processing the words while he weighed their likelihood, but the uncertainty was enough for Moran to know he'd guessed it in one.

'You've no right to look surprised, Holmes. After all, Mycroft gave away all that _personal_ information about you just to get what _he_ wanted, even though he knew full well it might ruin his brother in the process. Surely you've suspected all along that he would have no qualms in using you as bait, to say nothing of Dr. Watson...'

A dull scraping noise had begun as John started to grind his back teeth. 'You're lying.' He said when at last Sebastian fell quiet. Sherlock stepped alongside, glancing down at the doctor's grim expression of fury then between the five other men left in the room, subtlety computing.

'You don't want information, Moran. You don't even need it.'

'Correct.'

'So, what's the plan?' Sherlock continued. 'You won't release me. When you've finished using me to dabble with the government, you'll only sell me, whole or otherwise. Isn't that so? Why would I do anything you ask?'

'Don't worry about what comes afterwards, I'll find a use for you. You need only worry about a simple decision. You have one opportunity to afford Dr. Watson the mercy of a clean end, to prevent his suffering before I have him tortured beyond recognition as a man. Think of it as goodwill, if you like, or whatever makes the decision easier. I want to see whether you've accidentally become human, to see your composure fail as he dies.'

There was a tension in John's arms that Sherlock knew he was trying to conceal. He squeezed John's elbow where he gripped it, trying to reassure. Given the scenario, it didn't entirely surprise John to hear as much, but it wasn't any easier knowing he'd been brought there to die.

'If that's all this is, then you're wasting our time.' Sherlock's baritone voice, filled with odium, rose to permeate every corner of the room. 'There's no need to reference a scale of intellect to classify a savage.'

Lifting a hand in acknowledgement of the accusation, Sebastian nodded. 'I apologise, overall it does give a bad impression. I don't appreciate torture as a practice, it's protracted and degrading. But I have the luxury of employing people to perform such things on my behalf.'

Sebastian curled his lower lip to produce a long, shrill whistle. The gang of men looked between themselves before the dark haired man slowly returned, walking to stand a little way behind Moran. Sherlock looked him over.

'You're a long way from Albania.' Sherlock said calmly. 'What would your youngest brother think if he knew what you were involved in, now?'

'Ignore anything he says.' Sebastian warned without turning to see the man's expression, not really needing to. 'He's nothing more than a high degree con-artist. Austen?' The blond man who'd escorted Sherlock stepped forward, now the gun was out of sight, his arms unfolded to produce another handle of the trademark switch blades.

Without hesitation, Sherlock stepped in front of John as he prepared to defend them both. John gripped on for stability, fully intending to be part of any fight.

As the second thug joined the first, the knife blade snapped open with a small clunk, but instead of advancing on them he grabbed the Albanian by the chin from behind. Controlling his head to the left, he slammed the knife into the side of his neck and swept it forward to slice out through the throat. He showed no outward reaction, as if he'd opened a letter rather than a man's gullet.

Sherlock leapt back in surprise, knocking John down as he evaded the spray of pressurised blood gushing from the carotid artery. The assassin released the man and all watched as he collapsed and curled over on the ground, a repulsive, frothing sound filling the room as he tried to scream through the torn windpipe.

Unflinching from the brutal display, Moran pushed the dying man onto his front with a foot before stepping across him to stand in front of Sherlock.

John crawled backwards along the floor, dragging the bad leg until he was out of reach. The pinprick pupils of Sherlock's pale eyes studied each line and muscle of Moran's face. They were a similar height, John noted, apparent now they stood almost nose to nose.

'I guarantee when we finish with the doctor, there will be nothing left to save.'

Not wanting to hear what Moran had to say but unable to prevent it, John looked down at the gangster-turned-victim's body as it began twitching in shock. His face was hidden from view, but he was undoubtedly beyond help. It was an unfortunate fact that on occasion, it took time to die. Although he might have killed either one of them in an instant, John still wished he could put the man out of his misery all the same. It was impossible to overlook such suffering barely six foot away.

'I didn't doubt you in the first instance, before the theatrics.' Sherlock whispered at last, his voice empty over the sound of the man's death throes.

Was 'theatrics' all this was to men like them? John swallowed, uncomfortably aware of the lack of control he retained over his own fate. Sometimes he felt he was intentionally naive of Sherlock's true nature. Mycroft had urged him to stand by Sherlock, and it seemed increasingly likely that such action would be the end of him.

'If you do as I ask, I will also guarantee that you live to see the end of this. You can't get fairer than that, Mr. Holmes. So, will you do it - or shall we?' Sebastian felt inside his pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes and lighting a new one smoothly. Sherlock wished he'd accepted one now. His eyes shifted towards John, but at the wound in his leg rather than his face.

'Fine. If you insist.'

'I do. Austen?'

The killer stepped over the body, now finally at rest, to cut the cable ties around Sherlock's hands. He placed the knife firmly into his unresisting palms and then drew back. Sherlock stared at it, hardly daring to believe how easy it had been to obtain a weapon and get untied in one simple move. After Moran had reduced his own gang by one more member, there were only four left, including Sebastian, to eliminate.

'I'm sorry, were you hoping for the gun?' Moran chuckled in an affected tone. 'I'm afraid you're going to have to get your hands dirty before you've repaid your debt.'

'I don't owe you anything.'

'You owe James.' Moran spoke with restraint, confirming Sherlock's suspicions that his aggression was stoked by grief. 'You owe him a life.' He inhaled smoke resolutely.

'Moriarty was crippled. He was so disturbed, I didn't even have to try.' Sherlock sneered the last word through his teeth, relishing the effect of the death he'd helped to instigate. 'It was easy.'

Sebastian seemed above the taunt, exhaling slowly. 'So is this,' he pointed out. Controlling reaction to prevent any unintended response was as good as admitting sensitivity to the topic in Sherlock's mind. Another piece of the man's puzzle slid into place.

'You were jealous.' He said, understanding what had eluded him before. 'You resent that I infatuated him.'

Surprised, John recognised a similarity to the sentiment he'd developed towards Moriarty. He looked up at Sherlock again, wondering where this might lead just as Moran flicked the half-smoked cigarette without warning. It landed on the back of John's hand and he displaced it with a hiss of pain, but not before the ember had burnt a white scar in the skin.

Sebastian meanwhile watched Sherlock's reaction, checking the meaning behind his gesture was fully understood. Sherlock grasped the sense of it all too well; he might be right but he still had someone left to lose. He had to play the opportunity carefully, yet no sooner had he had the thought than another handful of men moved into earshot in the kitchen outside and Sherlock's heart sank. They'd already had reinforcement during the day, and now it was no wonder why Moran thought his men's lives expendable.


	23. Chapter 23

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 23**

* * *

><p><em>If there's anything to say,<br>__If there's anything to do,  
><em>_If there's any other way,  
><em>_I'll do anything for you.__  
><em>

_Widows in Paradise - Sufjan Stevens_

* * *

><p>'Right.' Sherlock's hands came together loudly in prayer as he turned on the spot to locate the sofa before sitting heavily with an overstated sigh. 'Now it's apparent what this charade is actually about, we can finally get down to business. Emotional guessing games bore me to senselessness...' His heels pushed the coffee table away to create enough space to stretch out. Laying in front, the body of the young man moved with it and slumped into the centre of the room.<p>

'Please take a seat in your former employer's requisitioned living room,' Sherlock indicated one of the arm chairs opposite with the knife before examining his wrist in closer detail, picking at the dried blood in a dissatisfied manner. 'Or suit yourself,' he added with a detached wave, looking sideways to regretfully inform; 'John, the mini-break is off.'

If it was intended as a code to denote something of importance, the meaning eluded John entirely. He kept quiet as it seemed rhetoric, and more for Moran's benefit than his.

Sebastian appeared to be waiting for an explanation to an unapparent joke as he stood motionless. 'Did something give you the impression that we have business in common?'

'A subtext of denial is hardly going to disguise your barefaced curiosity now, Moran. If what you say about my brother is true, I'm your enemy's enemy and the least you could afford me is an opportunity to make my own arrangements with you first.'

Although Sebastian looked unimpressed, he didn't vocalise an objection. Sherlock shuffled forward on the sofa and continued. 'I will kill someone in John's place. _Anyone_ of your choosing; civilian, military, government… royalty, just name the target and consider it done.'

'Oh, for God's sake.' John sighed, covering his forehead in disbelief. Sherlock's mind had well and truly left the map on this one.

'There's no need to resort to treason, I'm not short of access to hitmen.'

'A paid assassin hasn't the same poetic irony, or ease of access. Public-figured terminations carry hefty price tags, and so much leg-work just to get inside the target's vicinity. Not to mention, sourcing a killer who won't _blab_ if they screw up and find themselves in a thirteenth century inquisition.'

Moran shifted his weight as he appraised the offer, but before he had the chance to reply, the detective resumed his pitch. 'By your non-verbal response, I gather you'd be more interested in my proposal if it _included_ being caught in the act, so I'll cut to the chase and offer this; a strategic homicide in conjunction with professional suicide.'

Waiting to be sure that he was not about to be interrupted again, Moran cleared his throat. 'Fleet Street would have a field day with the headlines.'

'Well. I'm no creative, but "_Dead Genius Murders Brother_" does have a sensationalist, paper-selling quality to it.'

'I never said anything about your brother, punishment isn't meant to be enjoyable.'

'Oh, I'm sorry. I was getting ahead of myself.' Sherlock lied smoothly. Mycroft was naturally Moran's first choice, even if he pretended otherwise. Although Sherlock couldn't say 'enjoy' was a classification he'd applied to murder, he wasn't about to admit as much.

It occurred to John that if only Sherlock's motivation had been money, he could have made a legitimate fortune in sales by now. For a moment, it seemed as if Sherlock had actually managed to sell 'death' to an organ-trafficker. Moran folded his arms, staring contemplatively at the floor as he took a few paces across the carpet.

'You're that keen to dispatch your nearest relative because he mismanaged your protection?' Sebastian clarified. 'Isn't that a little –'

'– harsh?' Sherlock supplied smoothly.

'…implausible.' Moran refined, glancing at a chair as he deliberated on whether the discussion would last long enough to warrant sitting down.

Despite resentment of the role his brother had played in setting up this situation, Sherlock wasn't quite that heartless. To some degree he actually understood what Mycroft had attempted to achieve and presuming the word of an organ-trafficking criminal was even to be believed, it wasn't his brother's worst plan to date. God knew he'd given Sherlock enough second chances over the last thirty-odd years.

Irrespectively, Sherlock forced himself to reveal a slight smile, as if not adverse to such an idea. It was better to go the whole 'psychopathic' hog and be done with it if Moran was ever going to take him seriously.

'You aren't the only one who has history with Mycroft. It's not the first time he's betrayed me.' _Truth_, Sherlock thought, before dismissing the involuntary urge to justify himself.

'The wronged and bitter sibling is scarcely a world minority. You want me to believe that's the source of your drive to murder?'

'I'm not _bitter_. I stopped caring about Mycroft around the same time I learnt to ride a bike for that precise reason; his faithlessness won't hurt me again. But if it's leading John Watson to harm, I won't hesitate to lift a hand against the liability that calls himself a brother to me. In principle, I've already killed two of your men on John's behalf, another two indirectly if you include your own demonstration and Issac over there.' He gestured over his shoulder to a man watching from the other side of the doorway.

The man looked uneasy at being singled out. 'I don't…know…'

'Yes, you do.' Insisted Sherlock, glancing towards the ceiling impatiently. 'There's something you should have _disclosed_ to Sebastian Moran on your job application, isn't there? The phrase 'previous employment' comes to mind.'

'Sir… He's trying to set me up. I don't know what he's talking about!'

'Lovely. I so very much hoped you'd say that!' Sherlock smiled as he twisted in his seat to regard the man, frozen rigid in the doorway. 'Kindly allow me to fill in the blanks for you then. Moran, this man has been charged to infiltrating your company in possession of an electronic tag sewn inside the lining of his right trouser hem. Although he no doubt has authorisation to assist in a more proactive manner, clearly he's of a more technical than combative persuasion, so I'd take a closer look over your fresh 'recruits' and locate those more physically primed for a rescue attempt than Issac here. And for god's sake man, you won't win a BAFTA here, stop looking so gormless and face death with some decorum.' Sherlock glanced back at Sebastian. 'You'd think the government could afford better acting lessons.'

John had to bite his tongue to stop from screaming '_What are you doing?'_, praying that Sherlock not only knew _what_ he was doing, but also why, and hadn't just destroyed their only chance of getting out of the situation alive.

'Think of this as empirical evidence of my sincerity.' Sherlock concluded as the poor man stuttered in protest, but his appeal barely made it past a few syllables before the gun fired. Sebastian's leather coat creaked as his arm lowered, turning once more to regard the detective.

'You were saying?'

'No, I'd finished. You were about to say that we have an agreement.'

'What makes you think I'd trust you to keep such an outrageous proposal?

'As you're aware of my capabilities, I don't think there's any question in regard to ability, and we both know I'm offering a better trade off than anything you'd receive for the two of us combined. You can enjoy my public imprisonment and humiliation, and the chief source of antagonism to your movements is eliminated. More than a fair exchange.'

Moran shook his head, and Sherlock faltered; worried that he might have misread Sebastian's cues. 'What you have in intellect, you lack entirely in character, Sherlock. I'm no genius, but killing my opponent to win the game is not only cheating but a fairly boring outcome to events. If all I wanted to do was kill Mycroft I could have done so numerous times in the last ten years since he first crossed my path, back when he was still a young civil servant; righteous, honourable and dreadfully over-eager.'

Sherlock stood suddenly, looking towards John in confusion. Finally, he reconciled the motives of their captor as Moran spoke his thoughts aloud. 'Dr. Watson is not leverage and nothing you offer will change his fate now, besides the manner of it. Assuming you can't kill him first, he'll be salvaged for parts that can be on a plane within an hour's notice. Thank you for the tip off, but I won't waste any more of your time pretending to strike a bargain.'

John felt his bones turning to lead as he simultaneously processed and suppressed the meaning of the words. The detective's countenance of misunderstanding now turned to one of remorse. John saw several of the others around the room watching him, more ambivalent than aggressive. A few appeared more nervous now, concerned about who else might be served up on a sacrificial plate.

Moran took out his phone, tapping quietly for a moment before holding it up for Sherlock's benefit. Reluctantly the detective cast his eyes down, squinting to make out a timer running on the screen. Sebastian withdrew the phone again and held it slightly higher. Recognising the action, Sherlock hid the knife behind his back but not quickly enough to conceal it from the photo. He glanced down contritely at the battered young man a few feet away.

'It's time for your public reinstatement, Holmes.' Sebastian announced, smiling at Sherlock's expense as a soft sound signaled the text had been sent. 'The Police won't trace the sender; it went to an associate who will by now be forwarding the photo to a dozen news and media sources before he dumps the phone. After that, you'll be connected to three very public stabbings which took place less than an hour ago in London by a man fitting your CCTV profile and description. Let the public decide just how far their fallen hero has stumbled now.'

The effect was clearly as Moran had intended, and a somewhat confounded Sherlock smoothed his disheveled hair, attempting to control more than just insubordinate curls.

A few feet away, a man dressed in pale denim and a bomber jacket armed his gun, the one named Simon who'd escorted them in the cars earlier. Sherlock seemed past caring about staged threats as he walked towards the man in the doorway that Moran had shot dead.

'You're wasting time.' Moran prompted, realigning his jacket collar from their earlier struggle.

After a few moments careful consideration of the fresh body, Sherlock turned to reveal his trademark smirk.

'It appears I was mistaken. This isn't the man who worked for Mycroft.'

'You knew his name.' Sebastian insisted darkly.

'Overheard from the kitchen. I didn't say I knew him. One of his trouser legs _was_ re-hemmed, but it's just a repair of the cheap stitching. He was trained as an engineer, but the rest is speculation. I'm only surprised that you took my word as gospel after making it abundantly clear that you won't trust me in other regards.'

Straightening a cufflink, Moran smiled faintly at the trick. 'Well, you had me going for a moment there. I can't deny it was a tempting proposition, but my decision stands. James said you had a fertile mind. Ingenuity and logic don't always ride easily together, but I believe it was part of your appeal to him.'

Sherlock glanced at John's judgemental scowl, the one of confused disgust that usually accompanied his more unorthodox strategies. With a certain relief, he noted this particular expression appeared to fall favourably on the scale of '_what a bloody mess_' to '_I want nothing to do with you after this_'. That was something at least.

'Intelligence is stimulating for those with limited capacity for their own.' Sherlock answered, and Moran's disposition soured like an over-ripened fruit.

Swallowing the insult, Sebastian turned and gestured to the still-warm corpse of the Albanian. 'If you wish to be humane, take a lesson from Agim, here; violent blood loss brings near-instant unconsciousness. If you attempt to use that knife for anything besides what I've asked, you'll both be shot. That's all there is to it. And you now have even less time to waste.'

With a final glance towards the phone in Moran's palm, Sherlock turned and stumbled towards the back window, facing out on an overgrown field and darkening sky. The fracture was deteriorating his composure, and John didn't think Sherlock's unsteadiness had gone unnoticed by their abductors either.

'If I'm just a dead man walking, why feed me earlier?' John questioned, suddenly aware of the inconsistency.

'Someone fed you?' Sebastian shot back. 'Umar, give him something again and I'll shoot you in the stomach myself.'

'Yes, sir.' The black man replied solemnly, raising his head a little in acknowledgement. Moran lit another cigarette on his way to the kitchen, having prematurely relinquished the one before it on John.

'Get these guys up off the floor and put them in the warehouse, then have a clear up,' he instructed, stepping over the latest corpse in the doorway.

Surprised that he'd managed to make the situation worse when it hardly seemed possible, John kept his remaining thoughts to himself. With no interest in wasting time on Moran, John forced himself to stand despite the pain it afforded him to make the motion appear normal. Avoiding the bodies, he straightened his back and limped resolutely towards the detective.

The sniper slipped his automatic out again, and swung it calmly by the trigger frame while Simon kept his own gun trained on the doctor's progress. The body of the man Sherlock had accused withdrew slowly across the door's threshold and out of sight.

Considering what he might say, John felt an urge to apologise for dropping the phone when he'd fallen, for attacking Sherlock in the basement and getting in the way, for walking into a cemetery with a loaded gun in the first place. But none of it could be helped now.

'Don't start.' Sherlock snapped, before John had the chance to ask about any notions of a plan.

'How long?' John murmured instead, leaning on the windowsill.

'Eleven minutes, but I can't think with this headache, John. I can't _think_.' Another minute passed in silence, until finally he looked down and met John's eyes, his gaze still focused off-centre. The pain and stress were beginning to cripple the younger man's self-control; John had seen as much often enough during service. In different circumstances, he could have managed it.

'What he did to you… to your head…'

'I can't remember.' Sherlock admitted quietly.

'Do you have double vision?'

'Double would be a blessing. Try a whole, private kaleidoscope. I couldn't aim a gun if I had one.'

'It's just the migraine.' John offered to calm Sherlock's nerves, categorically failing.

'It doesn't matter either way. I'm a fool and I'm going to get us both killed. In fact the only tangible idea I have will guarantee our deaths even faster than doing nothing. I don't suppose that's of any interest to you?'

'Right now, any idea is better than none.' John prompted.

'The Black Lotus.' Sherlock whispered conspiratorially.

'Ok.' John's eyebrows raised, converged, and then levelled once more. 'No, you're going to have to clarify…'

'It's simple. You just need to take out the sniper with this knife before I get halfway across the room.'

'You want me to throw it?' John asked sceptically, looking at the blade that hung loosely in Sherlock's hand, and then back down the length of the room. He released a long breath through his lips in misgiving. 'Honestly, if I hit anything besides the wall, it'll be pure luck.'

Sherlock gave a small huff of acceptance, not entirely from irritation. 'Never mind then, it was a long shot.' He looked over John's wound-crusted thigh and blood shot eyes. 'More of an epic shot, really.'

'Yes, and perhaps some ideas aren't better than none, after all.' John returned wearily.

'Well, there was another option.' Sherlock confessed, clenching the knife as he flicked the catch. The blade sprang open with a jolt, scattering flecks of blood from the last victim on the window. Four inches long and part serrated, it was a twin to the one he'd taken off the intruder in Paddington.

John watched it, turning to face Sherlock with a look of uncertainty.


	24. Chapter 24

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 24 – Cheated**

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** Wow - StArBarD. Wow wow wow. Wow! _

_Thedragonaunt - thank you, always, thank you so much. Erm. Slight confession, we may be in for more… angst than magic from SH at the moment, but... that's coming too. :)_

* * *

><p>"<em>If I wanted to go, I would have gone by now,<br>__But I really need you near me  
><em>_To keep my mind off the edge._

_If I wanted to leave, I would have left by now  
><em>_But you're the only one that knows me."__  
><em>

_Better than I know myself – Adam Lambert_

* * *

><p><em>Another option?<em> John shivered as a draft from the single glazed window raised goose bumps across his arms. He knew. He just knew.

Whether on a subconscious level or a sentient one, John recognised the only reliable alternative playing out in his friend's mind from the moment Sherlock moved his head upwards and away, all the time staring straight down at the knife. It was an involuntary, disdainful look – his body instinctively drawing away from the action he had been forced to consider. The slight twitch of a smirk as he came to terms with the verdict.

John approached Sherlock carefully, as if he were cornering a wild animal, until he was able to lean sideways and cover the bloodied knife with his own hand.

'Don't be reckless,' John asked gently, hoping the warmth of his touch might break any fascination the grim sight of it held. He didn't want them to overcome Moran's ultimatum only for a scenario to unfold in which Sherlock fulfilled Jim Moriarty's instead.

Hesitant at the unexpected contact, Sherlock stared at where their hands met, the burn mark fading to brown on John's fourth knuckle, but he didn't pull away. Sherlock's eyes found him again, enquiring, and he moved higher, taking hold of the detective's wrist to prevent an impulsive reaction. John began to suspect that this had been Sebastian's ruse all along, trick Sherlock into the trap he'd evaded once already - lead him to believe his own, genuine death would disengage the criminal's interest in John, or perhaps buy Mycroft enough time to track them down – if he hadn't brought half the country to a standstill already. It wouldn't work, John knew, and if Mycroft discovered his brother's untimely death, he'd probably be left to the same fate anyway.

'No one lasts forever.' John breathed out slowly, sounding calmer than his racing heart permitted.

'John…' Sherlock warned, realising where this was leading. 'You don't need to-'

'I'd rather not be tortured to death, if it's all the same. I don't want to go through that, I know what it will – how it…' John's voice trailed into silence, he couldn't begin to explain the things he'd seen before. Under focus from Sherlock's scrutiny, he felt exposed, as though his thoughts were being sifted through like baggage contents at airport security. 'I won't fight.'

Sherlock attempted to retrieve his arm but John's grip tightened. He was terrified, that much was true enough, but the prospect of being brutalised by Moran's gang seemed respectively trivial against the notion of reliving his best friend's suicide. He couldn't do it again; yes this might make him seem pathetic, like he was just giving up, but his solution was simpler, better. It was easy to die passively, easier by far than facing what he'd planned to do days ago at the cemetery.

'We don't have time left, stop thinking and do it.' John finished, turning to face him squarely, but Sherlock remained unmoved. Ignoring his trapped arm, he seized John with the other, trapping skin within the grip, causing the doctor to gasp as his weight shifted onto the bad leg and he reflexively let go to hold onto the arm pushing him off balance.

'I know you think I have no feelings,' Sherlock hissed, lips curling to reveal teeth as he spoke. The dried blood across his head and shirt only added to the menace in his words. 'But I'm not going to live with the memory of your murder. Don't you dare ask me for that.'

He wanted to point out that Sherlock had almost made him do the same thing three months beforehand, but it wasn't decent to remind Sherlock of it now. Faces so close they were almost breathing the same air, John averted his gaze in humiliation only to be confronted by the point of the knife inches from his face, a strange way to emphasise a threat _not_ to kill someone.

'If it's just a memory, delete it.'

* * *

><p>They stood frozen in time for several seconds before Sherlock blinked, scanning John's face as the doctor stood uncomfortable but compliant. He noticed the blade he'd almost raised against John's cheek and drew his arm back quickly, embarrassed by the inadvertent attempt to intimidate.<p>

The overstretched beige jumper slid through his fingers too, hand unclenching as his temper dissipated. If John believed he functioned like a computer, he only had himself to blame. How could John have known any greater depth to his character when he always chose to hide it?

'It doesn't work like that.' Sherlock stepped back, dropping his chin. It was his own fault, no one else's. He should never have allowed his attachment to grow strong enough for others to use it against him, Mycroft chiefly among them. 'I thought there was a logical explanation to all of this. It doesn't make _sense_.' His voice was barely a whisper now; he looked at the three men on the opposite side of the room, talking together as they each stole glances at the spectacle going on this end. 'Then again, if I were in Moran's position and believed you'd been tricked into killing yourself like Jim, I can't guarantee torture wouldn't be on my list of priorities either.'

He saw John's throat convulse as the shorter man swallow hard, drawing himself up straighter, summoning courage. He didn't deserve such loyalty.

'It's ok.'

'No, it's not.'

'I don't blame you.' John continued regardless. 'Moriarty was a broken record and we ended up on the same track with him no matter what we did. Moran won't be satisfied until he ruins us, one way or another, he won't stand for someone challenging him and winning. I'm in his crosshairs, and if this is what it takes to end that then yes, it's ok.'

'But… you're mine.' Sherlock objected, immediately regretting the way it made John sound like an asset at his disposal. John actually gave a small laugh, obviously feeling some part of it was also true.

'I won't let you risk this, he's not Moriarty and he's not playing games.'

'Neither am I!'

'Look, I have a better plan.' John took the blade from Sherlock before he could resist, not exactly snatching it, but enough to give Sherlock reservations. 'Did you notice where we're standing, Sherlock?' John turned to face it, emphasising his point. 'A window.'

Sherlock couldn't help but tut, rolling his eyes faintly in exasperation. 'That's your plan?'

'If we open it, how long do you reckon we'd have before they tried to blow our brains out? Five seconds? Ten?'

The detective didn't need to look to make an educated guess; the bungalow was old with only a central catch for security. 'You can't run and I'm not leaving alone.'

'I _knew_ you'd say that.' John let out a grunt as he leant heavily on the window ledge, half turned away. 'Always so stubborn.'

'Well, don't insult me by asking then.'

'Promise me one thing.'

'Don't even think about opening it!' Sherlock warned, reflexively cynical.

'I'm not going to.'

'Good. Now give me the knife.'

'I want you to use the chance I'm giving you, and get the hell out of here.'

Sherlock paused, frustrated that he couldn't see John's face to tell what he meant. _Tired, unsteady, leg injury and… heavy breathing._ 'What did you do?' He asked uneasily, a thick coil of dread worming through his chest while he mind tried desperately to ignore the plain-as-daylight explanation.

The doctor turned slowly, still grasping the windowsill for support and Sherlock couldn't help but stare at the dark crescent spreading down the lower half of his jumper.

'What needed to be done.' John replied, pragmatic, sliding the knife back along the ledge towards him.

'No.' Sherlock knew denial wouldn't change the outcome, but he couldn't accept it. His mind began unravelling in shock, concentration fractured as he struggled to process the sensual feedback.

'I swear, if you waste this chance, I'll take it as a personal insult! I have… loved every minute we spent together, even the bad times, but I couldn't live with myself if you died for me. I couldn't even handle it when I thought you'd…' John stuttered, crouching as the pain overwhelmed him.

'You're not meant to do this!' Sherlock insisted, reaching down towards John as if he might intercede. The doctor deflected him, shoving weakly at his chest with one hand, the other cradling his stomach.

'Forget me, forget bravery… you can't help, you can't change anything. Just get out of here.' He stood suddenly, the window catch giving way with a twist of the handle and John threw it open as far as he could manage. Numbly, Sherlock allowed himself to be shunted towards the space, feeling John's legs straddle his on both sides as he shielded him from behind.

Sherlock could hardly take a breath to speak, body taking over to make damn sure he got up onto the ledge and through the frame. On the other side, he turned back but John's silhouette turned to confront shouting from inside. He should have said... something.

A gun shot reverberated in the cold evening air and Sherlock scrambled into motion without entirely intending to, gasping out a tearless sob of anguish for being too weak to control his own instinct to survive.

_I won't fight. _

_Forget me._

He ran, but he hated himself. Plunging blindly across the field in almost darkness, the rustling of displaced grass drowned out by panicked breath. It wouldn't do. _Take control_, he warned himself. _Or they will take it for you. _

He heard others in pursuit as he shot past the first scattering of trees and bolted on into woodland.

* * *

><p>John's breathe came shakily, pressing against his stomach as he looked down. The sharpness of the pain stabbed far deeper than the wound did, no more life threatening than Moran's last cigarette. Well, unless it became infected.<p>

He turned to see men racing towards him and kept his nerve, holding tight to the window ledge, blocking access. Simon fired past the side of his head into plaster and John flinched, but a show of threat wasn't going to move him either.

'_You have to stay with him, John_.' Mycroft's words crossed his mind now - of all times.

_This is different, _he told himself. This time, if they had stayed together, Sherlock would die too.

Moran cleared his throat from the doorway, watching as his men grabbed John by his clothes, arms and anything else available and began a lengthy process of dragging him further into the room and manhandling him onto his back on the ground.

'That man never disappoints, does he?' Sebastian moved forward until the points of both shoes framed John's head on the floor. John stopped resisting as he leant forward over him with an upside-down smile, lifting a two-way radio receiver in his hand.

'Over to you.' Moran's voice was velvet with triumph. 'He's gone for a turn about the grounds.'

A crackling of silence sounded for several moments from the other end, the recipient holding down the transmit button without intention of speaking. Then a long sigh, punctuated by an equally noisy inhalation, and a crystal sharp voice filled the room.

'Ta!'

John's eyes snapped wide open.


	25. Chapter 25

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 25 – In Flight**

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><p>"<em>Bring me home in a blinding dream,<br>Through the secrets that I've seen.  
>Wash the sorrow from off my skin,<br>And show me how to be whole again._

_Castle of Glass – Linkin Park_

* * *

><p>As visibility failed in the dimming light, the days of inter-country, cross-capital pursuits seemed little more than a distant lifetime away. The imminent threat of violence that rest would surely bring overcame any desire to stop as Sherlock tripped and groped a pathway through the forest.<p>

His stamina wasted with inactivity after three months of idleness, the initial, headlong sprint from house to tree-line had almost ruined him. Chances of success in attempting escape had been slim enough but he'd known the odds when John forced him to leave.

That is, when he'd _chosen_ to leave. It was an important distinction to make in this instance. Later, it would all too tempting to believe responsibility had rested with anyone else but with himself.

He didn't want to think about anything, not the enforced fasting reducing him to this weak, disorientated condition. Certainly not about the damage lying beneath the crust of dried blood, opening up his mind up from within.

Risking collision once more to listen behind, the sounds of pursuit remained on the edge of hearing despite having changed direction once already. Two groups of Moran's men were following him separately, he wasn't certain of their number but an awareness of being channelled between them was provisionally of greater concern. Of all the manners in which he'd been hunted in the past, heading up a triangle of murderers steering him towards a trap was certainly one of the bleaker scenarios.

In breathless, chest-burning flight, the only thought Sherlock could hold onto in focus was a question; how were they tracking him in the dark? He could out-manoeuvre infra-red, but had small hope in evading thermal-imaging, might just as well wave a flare torch as he ran.

If they had planted a GPS device, any escape attempt might be futile without stripping naked, unless he'd been forced to swallow a transmitter unconsciously, or they'd embedded it under his skin - the most noticeable and so least likely option.

'All right, _enough!_' Sherlock snapped, determined to rationalise his disorderly imagination before the mental drain of paranoia completely took over. Pain was no excuse for short-circuiting over one simple problem. With the assumed restraints of cost and access, the most advanced technology they'd likely have access to, if any, would be infra-red. That also meant his next choice was relatively simple.

As the terrain began to incline, Sherlock pushed himself into the ascent, using inertia to combat the lactic acid burning through his muscles. Along the slope, the trees thinned out enough to allow the last traces of light through, colouring the woodland grey and leaving him exposed, but finally offering the opportunity he'd been searching for.

Sherlock switched course again, running parallel to the gradient for thirty seconds before turning back downhill. Where the ground levelled out and the forest grew denser, he cut speed and skidded through the damp sod, diving sideways along the ground.

Twigs broke and pierced the cotton shirt as he rolled under the wide, overhanging foliage of rhododendrons. Face-down against the undergrowth, arms shaking with adrenaline, Sherlock pushed and twisted his way deeper as something startled off through the vegetation ahead. Finally certain of obscurity, he gathered debris and leaves about himself and lay still, controlling the laboured breaths until diaphragmatic control returned.

Moisture rose up through the ground, sapping heat from his body as it soaked the skin. Sherlock thought about going back, considering and dismissing arguments against himself while shouts in the distance grew closer. The prevailing difficulty would be in discerning a viable method to seize one of Moran's vehicles, and then in locating John from a distance as he sought the expedient opening needed to reach him without discovery.

The temple-splitting headache drummed in time to Sherlock's pulse as he counted the passing seconds, watching the darkness in vain until a stray torch startled him, illuminating the skeletons of trees before it swept onwards. One by one, men hastened past a short distance away with no mind to stealth. If only he'd had a line of wire to string out at throat height, by now at least some would be asphyxiating from collapsed windpipes.

Slowly, Sherlock accepted that he couldn't return. He'd known it when he left, but all the time he debated with himself it still seemed a possibility. If it hadn't been for John's emphatic, self-destructing desire to remove Sherlock from harm's way, he would have stayed until the end.

Now, if John wasn't already dead, they'd make short work of it before long. A bullet to the head, a slit throat, a staccato of shank holes below his ribs…

'Oh shit.' Sherlock closed his eyes, which made no difference whatsoever in the dark, covering his mouth to suffocate the despair raging as it built. He should have been the one to pay this forfeit, but he'd taken the craven's way out, turning John into a martyr by virtue of inaction.

Reliving the parting only amplified his guilt, because he should have known… he _had_ known. John and his bloody saviour complex. Always setting himself in the course of danger, always the sacrifice.

_But he couldn't run. What logic was there in us both dying?_

The thought left Sherlock more isolated than he'd felt in years, empty and damned by his own subconscious. John had _real_ family, friends. He'd been close to Lestrade, closer to Molly that Sherlock had ever managed in years of working around them.

With his effortlessly affable manner, John had aligned himself deftly alongside Sherlock's unfulfilled, functional life, co-conspiring and protecting him as he transformed Sherlock into some kind of accomplished, _celebrated_ intellect, where most had perceived a pitiable eccentric at best.

What did he say when he saw these people again? What could his 'version of events' possibly be when nothing that came out of his mouth could alter the path he'd led John down and then abandoned him on? He was responsible and they would look straight through him and know that self-serving, narcissistic Sherlock Holmes had deserted the only faithful friend he'd known, to spare his own life.

Sherlock wondered what there was even left to return to. John's presence was in every memory they would never share again, that only he would carry onwards. Perhaps it was time for a change of situation. A change of country. A change of people.

His spine itched as perspiration cooled too quickly in the dark, and he started to shiver. Picking a leaf from his cheek with a trembling hand, Sherlock felt other debris clinging to the sweat and wiped his face across the cuff.

There was still a long night ahead, it was would be premature to torment himself over situations that might never arise if he didn't survive it. He had to live if only to take a sledge hammer to Sebastian Moran's cranium. He'd give that man the matching _migraine_ he deserved and wouldn't be held accountable for misjudging the use of force if his skull collapsed.

If John was dead, he'd ensure it.

After the last man had passed a matter of minutes beforehand, Sherlock peeled himself unsteadily from the wet ground, his arms shaking as he struggled to sit straight. Reaching towards the branches above, his fingers tightened on something solid but he couldn't register any details of what he gripped and it became apparent the injury was about to manifest itself once more.

Another wave of dizziness inverted the ground, leaving Sherlock clinging to the forest's ceiling. He didn't feel himself hit the floor, and as he lay staring into nothing, temperature dropping as his muscles failed to respond, he finally escaped into dreams.


	26. Chapter 26

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 26 – In Sorrow**

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><p>"<em>There's no remedy for memory, your face is<br>__Like a melody, it won't leave my head  
><em>_Your soul is haunting me and telling me  
><em>_That everything is fine  
><em>_But I wish I was dead."_

_Dark Paradise – Lana Del Rey_

* * *

><p>'You were wrong to trust him.' John whispered, and Sherlock forgot what he'd been watching before John spoke as he turned his head, searching in the dark.<p>

'You used to tell me I was too cynical.' He pointed out, and John stepped closer to his side.

'That was before I was almost thrown from a helicopter.' As he came out of shadow, Sherlock stared at a bruise around his throat, shaped loosely like a handprint. Reaching out, his fingers aligned perfectly with those of the markings, as he'd expected. John's eyes lifted to his, four decades of heartache as he smiled and Sherlock lowered his hand.

'It wasn't you, but he hopes you'll believe it was.' The voice was John's although his mouth hadn't moved, but the words stirred a pattern of memories in Sherlock's thoughts. Misdirection was the key to what eluded him, he realised. Every appearance was a distortion of the truth, just as a woman's makeup diverted the viewer to the colours, and not the face. Unless it happened to be Irene Adler, in which case an absence of clothes achieved a comparable purpose.

Without explanation, John pulled him close, pinning his arms tightly. Sherlock wasn't well versed in discerning the nature of embraces, but locked arms behind his back definitely felt like goodbye.

'What's the matter?' Sherlock asked, wondering why they were standing in a field at this time of night, a chemical aroma of cologne completely mismatched to their surroundings.

'He's already there,' John said calmly, leaning forward on his chest. 'You need to wake up.'

Sherlock pushed himself away, prising his arms free as he woke with a start.

Limbs heavy with cold, he fought the restriction that remained even after his dream faded. Finding the only restraint had been the tailoring of his coat, Sherlock lay back in relief as he caught his breath and looked up towards the sky. Savouring the hazy details while he still recalled them, Sherlock slowly wiped away the remnants of tears. He hardly dreamt anymore, not since the last few times he'd been using, but even then the dreams were chaotic, traumatising in their vividness and violence. He couldn't recall the last time he'd remembered a dream and still felt this rested. The headache had even cleared enough to think for the first time in days.

Rising up, Sherlock crawled drowsily across the ground and manoeuvred into the open, brambles snatching through skin as he tripped out of their grasp to stumble upright. Well-rested clearly didn't equate with coordination. The rush of being vertical cleared after a moment and Sherlock picked out features of the forest around him, searching for a clear stretch of sky to estimate how long he'd been cataleptic for on this occasion.

_What coat?_ Sherlock grasped the collar but felt only the wool lining of gloves. He pulled off the right one, the leather still inflexibly new, and grasped the fabric of a cashmere scarf, fuzzy where it had never yet been washed, both identical matches for his own.

Sherlock's senses went wild, feeling breached by the act of being dressed - in the undergrowth, of all places. Pocketing the gloves, he checked the coat seams to find that this at least was the original discarded several days ago in open pursuit.

The wood was quiet, but he doubted he could be alone. Looking back in the direction of the farmland buildings, long hidden over the distance travelled, he wondered whether he was even in the same forest.

Nearby, someone shifted their weight and Sherlock crouched, every shadow suddenly a threat. Immobilised by lack of tactical advantage, the night time silence mounted tension between him and the stalker as he wondered whether it would be wise to face an unknown attack. If someone was there, they'd heard him emerge and any judgement about the technology they employed had fallen considerably short. Clearly someone knew exactly where he was, someone with a reason to prevent his death by hypothermia, which narrowed the list considerably. Hopefully their seemingly benevolent motives didn't subsequently involve inflicting death in person.

As he perched there, the fragrance reached him again and he realised it was coming from the scarf beneath his own chin. He pushed it higher, inhaling against the soft weave to identify hints of citrus, rose and sandalwood. It was an eau de cologne, Muelhens 4711. Unisex, made in Germany.

It didn't bring anyone to mind, but if it had been planted there deliberately, there was a very definite message behind the choice of scent.

As an insect succeeded in crawling past one of his socks, Sherlock crushed it through the trouser leg, speculating that the remnants of sleep and adrenaline might have been deceiving. So why did suspicion keep him stationary?

Talking in the distance unfocused his attention; Sherlock turned to see the first hints of helmet torches through the line of trees. He stood and edged back as a group of voices rose in debate, whispered commands echoing into the distance in opposite directions. The full extent of what he faced became apparent; Moran had drafted a perimeter of men to flush him out.

But… he would have needed perhaps a hundred or more to surround the buildings from this distance. Having the resources to hold a standing boundary overnight seemed too disciplined for Moran, perhaps even a touch too military. Given that the civil defence forces were either directly or obliquely in Mycroft's back pocket...

The silent observer broke cover suddenly from four or five metres away, fleeing into the forest as the others approached. As much as curiosity urged him to follow, the stalker was not a threat and John was now his priority.

Sherlock drew a deep breath. 'Long live the Queen!' He bellowed the pledge twice more for good measure before the first of many converging men plucked him roughly into the open.

'Phone.' The gruff demand echoed back and forth between a few men as the item was produced and finally made its way into Sherlock's palm. Encased in shock-proof rubber, the display was already lit with an active call. He looked at the number twice, and held it to his ear.

'Yes?'

'Still in one piece then?'

'Relatively speaking, and no thanks to Sebastian Moran.'

'So I gathered.'

'They still they have John.' Sherlock glanced between the men surrounding him as they cross referenced position. He walked further from the chatter and crossbeams of light towards the edge of the crowd, seeking solace in the darkness. 'Did you hear me? He's critical, Mycroft. He needs help _now_.'

'Yes, I heard you –'

'Then get an air ambulance in-flight immediately, he'll need surgery the moment they reach him. Also, get the Air Force to investigate Petersborough air field and detain any private charters scheduled to leave within the week.'

'Sherlock, if you'd just–'

'Moran is going to attempt to leave the country, possibly alone, but there's a headcount of up to twenty in the farm buildings these men of yours are heading towards. You need to block off the two main roads that–'

'We have already.'

'Then stop talking to me and get to John, or Sebastian Moran is going to kill him!' Sherlock shouted in frustration, trying to remain in control even though the situation was out of his hands. Mycroft always had to be so composed, even when there was something this serious at stake. Perhaps a little too calm, even for his brother. 'You're already there?'

'Sherlock, _please_… take a breath and just listen to me for a moment.'

'You're with John?'

'I'm with his… him. Yes.'

Sherlock stared out into the darkness, wondering if his follower watched him in return. Mycroft would have chosen not to speak rather than correct himself mid-sentence, the mistake was only premeditated to convey a message he hoped to avoid vocalising.

'You're with his _body_.' Sherlock clarified. At an immediate loss for words, Mycroft said nothing and a throat-dry, heart-pounding silence took over. He set off through the woods once more, the opposite direction this time, slipping the phone inside his coat.

'I'm coming,' he told John, ignoring the contingent of service men and woman that followed in his wake.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/n:** Almost Season 3! FINALLY! AND almost 100 reviews! Very happy… a big thank you to each and every reader who took time to let me know their thoughts, I hope I've managed to reply to you all individually, but just in case - thank you, again. I know plot lines will begin to clash now season 3 is starting but the story will tie in nicely if all goes to plan… Happy New Year to you, wherever you are in the world…

* * *

><p><strong>AJ Elfhawk<strong>

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 27**

* * *

><p>"<em>Walk on through a red parade and refuse to make amends<br>It cuts deep through our ground and makes us forget all common sense  
>Don't speak as I try to leave 'cause we both know what we'll choose."<em>

_Clarity (Cover of Zedd ft. Foxes) – Beth_

* * *

><p>Early morning birdsong lent a surreal quality to the farm as Sherlock approached, a hive of activity having transformed it from derelict homestead to rural outpost. Temporary floodlights erected in his absence now picked out a contingent of personnel across the countryside, plain clothed officials of military affiliation directing patrols as they checked in.<p>

The crunch of quartz gravel brought Sherlock to a stop at the crest of the hill. He feigned a state of concentrated contemplation, tuning out the chorus of disapproval as the unit captain gestured for the men to save their breath.

Ending one phone call and initiating another, Mycroft commanded a central position in the courtyard, waiting to witness his brother's failure. The communications centre would have been setup in the kitchen where overhead lighting, space and shelter combined most auspiciously. A local detective stood in front of the window he'd escaped through, gesturing at the floor.

First they would find evidence linking him to the investigation, and then to the murders. Blood and DNA over the man he'd neutralised, fingerprints on the knife John had subsequently injured himself with. The sliced open throat of another victim as Sherlock held the same knife out in Sebastian Moran's candid photo. With two murders notionally assigned to him, they'd round up all three charges into one homicide case.

If what Moran had threatened was true, various other photos that now framed him as a serial killer were currently being bandied around the capital's media circuit. It wouldn't be long before the whole story blew wide open and reached such a profile that even Mycroft would be unable to protect him. He'd be lucky if they even looked for another killer, considering that his defence rested on someone who would disappear without trace, or indeed existence, to their minds.

Anything Sherlock mentioned – his abduction, John, Moran – would be ignored as the ramblings of a scheming psychopath at worst, and a psychotic liar at best. Depending on the strengths of the regional investigation teams, it might be possible to prove his innocence - with some heavy supplementary explanations – but forensics took time. He couldn't afford to waste it in custody for an indeterminate number of months while they pieced together everything he already knew.

Sherlock had known how the scenario would play out when others arrived, there was no point dwelling on it. It would have been preferable to arrive unobserved, but with an assignment in tow, his expectations hadn't been high.

Returning to the farm indirectly had seemed the best approach while there was still time to reconstruct Moran's movements, despite knowing it would not be a clean exit. Sherlock's gaze shifted across the scene, taking the time he had now to catalogue numbers and locations of people, weapons, vehicles, equipment – the searches in progress, the areas covered, weak spots, hot spots, dark corners and exposed crossings as he mapped out his retreat.

Another official had made his way up from the fields at quite a rate – fast walk, hand on chest, rapid blinking, deep breaths – intending to impose some jurisdiction, judging by the rank badge. Steering his thoughts back to the present, Sherlock moved into view and also found himself an object of scrutiny. He permitted the man his brief once-over, knowing it would bestow no significant insight.

In comparison, Sherlock had ample ammunition – woken after less than twenty minutes sleep, haphazard shaving past the jawline making last night a Sunday - a full weekend's beard growth was the only thing a military man would shave for half asleep in an emergency. Then there was the starched collar – a wife who worried about his heart murmur, nagging him to consider early retirement…

'I'm glad we've been able to return you safely, your brother was quite beside himself.' Such a statement was suspicious enough in itself.

'No need to exaggerate, Major. I'm sure Mycroft has plenty besides my whereabouts to occupy him.' The man smiled apathetically, understandably indifferent towards the relative of a government official who'd caused him to run around the Midlands in the early hours of the morning.

'No doubt. If you'd be so kind, I'd appreciate your company to go over a few details of–'

'Not right now.' The request had been more of a tactful imperative, but Sherlock wasn't about to let that deter him. Having failed to catch on to the notion of his own irrelevance in the process, the commander changed approach. 'Well, yes. Let's get you a coffee and a bite to eat first, then we'll have time to sit down and piece together the last few weeks.'

This was a man with ulterior motives if ever he'd seen one, and clearly not in the loop of actual goings on, unless it was just a show. Even if his brother had pulled strings here though, the Army had no jurisdiction in a criminal investigation. Perhaps Mycroft hoped to remove him from the vicinity before he incriminated himself further. Yes, that was probably it.

'That won't be necessary.' Sherlock dismissed, looking impatiently down the driveway.

'It's not the best coffee I'll grant, only instant, but it'll warm you up.'

Sherlock closed his eyes, tolerance approaching its elastic limit. 'I don't need _coffee_, I need a torch.'

'I'm aware of the arrangements you had previously, but–'

'To see the path.' Sherlock clarified, scowling at the obstruction currently standing in it. '_Please._' He forced out the nicety so they might believe him to be agreeable. Of course there would have been warnings about his tendency to 'interfere' after prior dealings with Scotland Yard.

As they relented to his demand under the commander's disapproving glare, Sherlock offered his exceptionally unconvincing gratitude and marched down the hill.

'Sherlock Holmes!'

'Lay off the coffee, Major. It's aggravating your arrhythmia.' He shouted back, flicking on the torch with no intention of being surreptitious with so many details to index for analysis. A set of skid marks through the gravel lead towards a vehicle that had swerved off-road and become lodged in a stream further down the slope. This merited investigation when the police had finished pandering about, John might have tried to escape, or left a message inside.

To force the car off-road, they would have had to ram it from the rear driver side, obstruct it head on or shoot the driver at long range.

Sherlock turned away. Thanks to John, people called him many things now - brave, clever, _hero…_ Words tossed around like disposable flattery. _Consulting detective, crime-solving genius, scientific mastermind – deserts only friend to stay alive._ He knew the word for that too.

_Keep walking._

Mycroft was turning now, watching his approach in closed-mouth disbelief. No doubt he had a memorised monologue to demonstrate how terribly anxious he'd been, in his own way. Anxiety which Sherlock knew mainly constituted the integrity of his own career and any potential breach in security his younger sibling posed.

_I trusted you._

Even at this distance, he looked as drained as Sherlock felt; minus the dirt, the battered and bloodied appearance, the dead friend, the double-crossing brother. Well, partially true, at least. Things could have transpired differently if Moran had accepted his offer.

Mycroft moved forward to greet him, a clear diversion from the warehouse to his left where men were unpacking body bags and equipment. Recognising Sherlock's demeanour, the sympathetic expression dropped and he stopped short.

As the officers guarding Mycroft moved to intercede, his brother motioned them to stay back. Third party mediation only escalated the likelihood of violence, and he didn't need Sherlock in a holding cell tonight.

'You should have _warned him_, you should have told _ME_! I had a right to know before you offered us as bait!'

'Sherlock, please listen …' Mycroft raised his hands in a gesture of reconciliation, moving back as his brother collided with him.

'Either you betrayed me or you're inept – so which is it?' Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's jacket to prevent his retreat, other fist clenching around the torch as he prepared to strike.

'You promised,' Mycroft reminded calmly, refusing to flinch. 'Do you remember last time? You promised not to become this again.'

'And _you_ promised to protect him!' Sherlock stood inches from his face, seething in anger, terrified at the loss of control this was slowly bringing him to.

'I did everything in my power to –'

'Don't you dare. You knew what John planned that day and didn't lift a finger to stop him!' He released Mycroft unexpectedly, disdainful as he pushed him back. 'How could you _not_ have known? Men were on rotation around that cemetery before I ever lived there; no civilian has been better guarded in history. The one thing you needed to do – _the one thing I trusted you to do_ – was protect John!'

It was easier to shout than acknowledge the origin of the problem. John had been Sherlock's responsibility from the moment he'd chosen to involve him in this life.

Mycroft watched the fire leave his brother's eyes, the anticipated explosion dying out as suddenly as it had begun. He straightened his clothes, grateful it hadn't brought them to blows once more.

'You're forceful, aggressive, rude… you say what you think about people, you're difficult to like… and John saw through it all. I understand, Sherlock. I truly do, and I blame myself.' Mycroft admitted and Sherlock laughed, turning his back. He hadn't the energy left to contend with insults thinly disguised as an apology. He needed to drink and rest, but hadn't time to satisfy either.

The warehouse.

Sherlock watched the grim-faced forensics team sorting equipment near the outside wall. There'd been a fight against it further along. Moss-free sections of mortar showed through brightly where the old, crumbing cement had been disturbed, the dimensions of a man's back pressed up against it. The weeds around the edge of the building had been flattened underfoot.

In a momentary break of composure, his brother moved to block him, taking Sherlock by surprise. He stared at Mycroft, daring him to retain the grip on his arm a minute longer.

'Don't go inside. I'm begging you.'

'_Get_ off me.'

'You're going to do more harm than good.' Mycroft warned and Sherlock scowled at him. From a clinician's perspective, he knew his fragile association with humanity was unlikely to survive the experience intact, but that wouldn't be a problem. If he were honest, revenge was the only consolation left and pain would only fuel the fight ahead. Sherlock pulled his elbow free and continued.

The Major had stopped to talk with two other captains while he waited nearby, and now Sherlock was moving out of earshot, he crossed the courtyard. Mycroft glanced at his watch, realising it was already past two in the morning.

'Ellis?'

'Sir, I think we should we get him offsite before this goes any further.'

'He's intent on going in, if you try to stop him now he'll disappear and we lose our chance. Wait until we're inside then block the exits.'

'He's going to disrupt the entire operation.'

'Major, he_ is_ the operation. When Sherlock's in custody, dismiss the infantry and let them get some sleep - I may need them later today. Occupy the police as best you can, hopefully we'll be out of here within the next hour.'

'Sir.'

'Just make sure it's not the Superintendent's lot on transport.' Mycroft added, following Sherlock at a distance. His brother was completing a tour of the barn's circumference, torch once more in hand. Forensics stood well back, no intention of getting involved after the scene they'd witnessed between the brothers.

Sherlock moved along, checking the doorway until he spotted marks along the outside beam. Squatting closer, the small flecks were recognisable as blood, already dried on the hand that had attempted to grip the wood. Someone had been dragged inside by the feet, already half-beaten into submission outside the building. His gaze lingered on the dirt, fingers moving to trace over grooves left by the unwilling victim. He began to consider how he might make Moran's last living moments worse than unbearable.

'Take it slowly.' Mycroft cautioned. Sherlock nodded absently as he stood, pushing the door inwards and stepping into the gloom. He checked the inside walls until he found a switch, and one by one the strip lights flickered on. Some of the florescent tubes had long gone dead, but they were enough to find his way.

Scatterings of stale hay still lined the animal pens and Sherlock climbed the railing of the nearest one, shining the torch as far as he could. There wasn't much to see, the dust drifted lazily in the breeze of the open doorway, but it smelled like death.

Jumping back down, Sherlock followed the walkway along rows of sties until the smell grew unbearably rank. He scanned the torch along the inside of the wooden enclosure, glancing from face to face to satisfy himself that John was not among the bodies.

There was the African - Ashanti accent, Ghanaian – who'd guarded John's room. A long way from home to die, not that it mattered much to him now. The other three were easy to identify, having witnessed two of their deaths and caused the third. Sherlock glanced back at Mycroft, wondering whether any of the murders had been openly attributed to him yet. It was only a matter of time, but his brother stood passively, hands in pockets, waiting. There was more to see.

A partition at the far end of the warehouse – storage room – was all that remained for him to investigate now. He scanned the floor outside, noting the trail left by the man dragged inside. Wide sweeps of dust and straw as the victim clawed about, desperately seeking a means to stop his own progress.

Having determined to see John, even if it ended in arrest, Sherlock forbade himself from leaving until every detail have been observed and permanently replicated within memory. More than any other, he deserved to see this. It was necessary to prevent himself from forming an attachment again.

Sherlock reached out to the latch and drew the door back to reveal a two meter A-frame ladder standing open in the centre of the room.

Squinting through the dimness as he searched the corners, his eyes fixed instead on a dark shape behind it. Recognition stirred as curiosity drove him forwards until he stood within touching distance of the body suspended from a support rafter.

It wasn't John, he'd known that instantly. Still, he dutifully scanned over the body dressed in John's clothes, bullet hole through the trousers, dirt-streaked jumper, sleeves pushed up to expose John's watch, wrists tied so tightly the hands were black. Sherlock stared up at the plastic bag pulled taught by the rope, wondering why they'd bothered to sanitise the death by covering up his head. Was this Moran's attempt at a joke?

'I'm sorry.' Mycroft offered from the doorway and Sherlock twisted around. Taking in his brother's well-composed sorrow and contrite expression, surprised the only counterfeit aspect was an attempt at grief. 'I would have done anything to spare you this.'

'Oh shut up and open your eyes.' Sherlock snapped, pulling and pushing the ladder into place, before gesturing at the corpse in emphasis. 'Just look at the proportions! Four inches too tall, nine pounds too light. The slack in the upper thigh circumference alone, for goodness' sake.' Sherlock stopped abruptly, stepping back as he ran the dimensions once more.

'Well, at least someone has intimate knowledge of John's under-waist measurements.'

Ignoring the unhelpful remark, Sherlock bounded up the ladder until he was level with the hands, leaning closer to inspect the swollen fingers.

_Yes, there._ He could picture them clearly, holding a tray steady at chest height, crystal glasses of port served in symmetrical rows. Date of the image – 2006, which made it the last Christmas party he'd attended at Mycroft's townhouse. Harold, perhaps? It was hard to recall details like that now; he'd been irrelevant at the time. What had been apparent though was Mycroft's expression – eyes lingering, tracking...

Sherlock turned from the grisly scene behind, wondering whether this was one of those moments John would have nudged him to exercise restraint out of respect for the deceased.

'What was the name of the last butler you hired?'

Mycroft frowned at the change in direction. 'I couldn't tell you, I've never employed one.'

'I don't care if you paid him or he did it for free, what was his name?'

'If you had any notion of what this last week has cost me, you'd rise above a childish desire to inflict embarrassment through intimation for once.' Mycroft failed to appear unmoved at his insinuation, incriminating himself further. If he honestly believed Sherlock knew nothing about his personal affairs, he was deluding himself.

'So, he meant something to you?'

Mycroft hesitated, concern outweighing his preference to conceal information. 'Why do you need to know his name?'

'Well, how else am I supposed to identify the body?'

Mycroft's composure dropped as he looked past Sherlock, seeing the corpse in a different light, finally at a loss for words.

'This wasn't intended for me, Mycroft. It's a message for you.'


	28. Chapter 28

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On The Way Down**

**Chapter 28**

* * *

><p><em>"On the first page of our story<br>The future seemed so bright  
>Then this thing turned out so evil<br>I don't know why I'm still surprised._

_Even angels have their wicked schemes  
><em>_And you take that to new extremes  
><em>_But you'll always be my hero  
><em>_Even though you've lost your mind."_

_Love the way you lie, Pt. III – Skylar Grey_

* * *

><p>John awoke panicking against confinement, knowing he was trapped before the nightmare faded from his muscles. Holes along the underside rim of the coffin illuminated in the beam of a passing searchlight on his left side.<p>

Perhaps a guard, perhaps not. There'd been shouting in the dream. John watched the faint outline of his own stomach rise and fall, wondering if he'd woken in time.

Moran's control was as ruthless as it was methodical, enough reason to suspect that anyone exploring the cargo bays was more likely to offer him harm than aid. Even if he was being paranoid, John somehow doubted they would live long enough to bring help. The footsteps resumed.

It was probably a commercial vessel as civilian ships had too many souls on board with prying eyes. Abduction under the military's gaze seemed arrogant even for Moran but he did have martial ties. For all John knew, they'd hidden him in plain sight on the bloody HMS Penzance.

The outlets for air were down below shoulder level so there was no chance of looking or breathing against them. The low oxygen concentration left him perpetually drowsy, and while sleep helped in passing time he'd now lost track of the hour's altogether. Nearly frozen in the depths of the ship's hold, John wondered if the flow of air across his lower body was anything more than wishful imagination.

The intermittent roll of waves against the hull rocked the ship steadily as John lay still, listening to the background vibration of the gas turbines. Staring ahead or closing his eyes, he picked incessantly at the padded lining, poking tiny crumps of foam through the ventilation in the hope of raising suspicion when they disembarked. When the hole became blocked, he stopped; no threat to his air supply was worth the risk.

It seemed abduction was going to become John's lot in life now he was irrevocably affiliated with 'Sherlock Holmes'. He'd not expected to leave the country at such short notice, certainly not as a corpse, but he had to admit that repatriation of bodies was quite an appropriate method to traffic the deceased and associated body parts. Money in the right hands achieved things ordinary people never even considered.

'Attract attention and I'll put a bullet through the wood,' Moran had stated bluntly as two men stripped him down to underwear.

'I bet you say that to all the girls.' John had smiled, unthreatened by exposure or the prospect of being trapped alive. It was a lot of trouble to go through just to shoot him in transit.

Moran had shoved John hard, tripping him backwards over the edge under the pressure of a compressed sternum. Flailing momentarily in descent, the landing had been imprecise and painful before they forced him down, despite no offer of resistance. The lid had swung shut leaving John to adjust to the confines of imprisonment as an electric screwdriver secured it in place.

After encasement had come the relatively short trip to a port. With a passport, death certificate and sundry documentation acquired, 'appointed' consular staff had verified and sealed the coffin leaving specialist supervisors to handle the loads at either end with just endless hours of silence in between.

Moran probably had connections with freightage companies and shipbrokers all over the world. There might be others in shipment alongside him, particularly if the trip was as premeditated as John suspected.

No amount of struggling would have changed the outcome. He didn't see the point in panicking when fear did nothing except expedite asphyxiation, and really he didn't want to give Moran the satisfaction. If his fate was to suffocate inside a coffin, he'd just have to accept it when the moment came.

Focusing on the past at least helped to distract him from the present, but the sickening smell of fear and stale urine made it hard not to wonder how many had failed to survive a journey in the mobile tomb before him.

'Nothing lasts forever,' he told himself quietly. 'Wait for an opening, wait for Sherlock.'

If Sherlock chose to look for him, that was. John was fairly confident he hadn't overacted the self-harm, he'd certainly never been a great thespian at any other stage in life. The only advantage had been an element of surprise and in reality the trick had probably lasted a full minute if he were generous, little more than a momentary distraction.

Subsequently of course, Sherlock might be dying of hypothermia somewhere in a trauma-induced coma right now, if he'd not been shot dead already, but it was probably best to focus on the positives - whatever they were.

John took a deep breath and sighed through his nose, trying to relax. Asking about Sherlock had gained him nothing except a shove in the face, which he'd taken as a good sign. No one had mentioned the detective in front of him, and in the absence of disproof John concluded the escape had been successful.

He certainly didn't want Sherlock to put himself in danger again, but truthfully the detective wouldn't be able to help himself. John also suspected this had been Moran's game plan all along.

It would have been easiest to forge documentation for a nobody like John Watson, and when the consulting detective discovered his partner's abduction, he would inevitably pursue. What better way to smuggle a wanted genius out of the country than by getting him to do it himself?

While the mental wrangling for supremacy became progressively more personal, Sherlock's preoccupation with success seemed to have crossed over into masochistic determination, almost to the point of martyrdom. When they'd first met, Sherlock had risked death for a game of chance. By the end, he'd jumped off a building to win what was essentially a pissing contest.

A 'normal' person would have said 'fuck this' long before allowing themselves to be put in such situations. Instead, Sherlock went out of his way to find them. John could understand fearlessness, but Sherlock really needed to work on his sense of self-preservation before he lost focus of the big picture entirely.

However John also conceded that perhaps - just perhaps - he was worrying unnecessarily, although he challenged anyone whose life hinged on the actions of an unstable know-it-all not to find this a troubling detail.

There was nothing wrong with faith in itself; he could hardly deny that Sherlock was his best chance of rescue - assuming it came before he was bereft of vital organs. But as a notoriously bad patient and the last to admit he needed medical attention, John privately hoped Mycroft would just find and sedate his younger brother before he got himself killed.


	29. Chapter 29

**AJ Elfhawk**

**On the Way Down**

**Chapter 29**

* * *

><p><em>What are you afraid of<br>__Making it better?  
><em>_Keep it together._

_What have you done?  
><em>_My only friend, keep on._

_Sights - London Grammer_

* * *

><p>Unmoving, Mycroft regarded the body for twelve seconds, the extent of consideration allocated for ex-staff. Given the degree of transgression Mycroft attributed to regret, double digits seemed generous. Sherlock's estimate fell short in his own favour, time enough to thumb open a scrap of paper retrieved from John's jeans, note two fingerprints in blood - <em>left edge <em>- erratic handwriting -_ right-handed, under threat, not John_ - and scan the words.

_harold stevenson anonymous_

Nothing except dirt on the back, sandy smudges where the author had leant on the floor to write. Undoubtedly the same man whose blood graced the edge, aware of imminent death and still following instruction in vain despair of salvation. Sherlock stowed the note from sight.

_Speciality chemicals company - deceased former chief of a North-American clan - a dulcimers musical collaboration - acting credit of a deceased blue-screen personality… _The closest matches he could recall were little more than trivia, most not even living let alone relevant. It was clearly a target, but he needed a missing link. To think like Moran.

Lips drawn tighter than usual, Mycroft set his back resolutely to the body of a man who had in life presumably once graced his attention on a near-daily basis. Everything remained on course, for what was a mere man against the backdrop of his brother's sub-political reign?

His brother's hands wiped against the coat's lapels, allegorically removing any trace of guilt. Despite culpability being as transient to Mycroft Holmes as the motes of dust between them, by his actions he still felt it. Sherlock lowered his eyes uncomfortably.

Death was hardly a dignified process; it paid no respect to its victims. He could fill notebooks with details of the ungracious, absurd manners in which people died. But when it was personal, somehow the end seemed more important. If that body represented more of John than just his stolen clothes, Sherlock decided he'd have preferred to know John hadn't died dangling at the end of a length of rope, dancing like a Devil's puppet.

_I offered him anyone._ _So he took you. _

By the disarray along the way in, the victim had been anything but compliant in the face of death, and the perpetrators would have had no small difficulty forcing him to write the note. Sherlock examined three faint trails left from dragging the ladder through the dust. One he'd created himself, so it had been moved to and from the room's centre recently, prior to their arrival.

The tube lighting was weak, offering little distinction to the body but illuminating the rafters well enough. If they'd hoisted the man by hand, the nylon rope would be scored from the edge of the wood but there were no such traces. The man's neck was unbroken, which wasn't unusual, but the knots weren't as taut as he'd expect from a struggling weight either.

'He was unconscious _in articulo mortis _and dead before they hung him up.' Sherlock clarified, irrespective of whether it brought solace. Mycroft stared with empty, reproving eyes, the murder seemingly attributable to Sherlock's involvement regardless.

'Oh!' Sherlock's hands flew up as an answer to his open-ended problem crystallised unexpectedly. It was his brother's look that triggered an association, the fastidiously schooled _non_-expression of the Government official. Two names, two marks.

_Secretary of State for Defence; Roger Harold MP – easy… next: Chief Executive of NHS England, Fiona Stevenson. _

'Shh. Thinking...' Sherlock overtook Mycroft's potential questions, curtailing exuberance as the revelation only brought more practical questions to mind.

'You don't have long.' Mycroft warned.

'I'd have longer if you didn't offer me to British intelligence with an apple between my teeth,' Sherlock chided, breathing deeply as he glanced about, considering options. When he'd walked the perimeter, there'd been notable subsidence leading out from behind the warehouse. If Moran's company had disappeared without trace, there was an undiscovered path and the entrance had to lie mid-way along the West-facing wall, obscured from vision in the dark.

'When my brother is moments away from arrest as a multiple-homicide suspect, I am at best an additional four minutes from suspension of my position-'

'Oh dear, not your _position…_'

Mycroft's chin lifted, drawing against reserves of patience pooled over a lifetime of challenging behaviour. 'You may feel blissfully unconcerned for the situation you've instigated, but I must appear beyond suspicion in every regard or else you will be on your own in this, Sherlock. Potentially for good.'

'Oh, shut up. Incarcerating the one person who has any prospect of tracking Moran is beyond _comprehension_, not suspicion.' Anger surfaced to mask his frustration, expectations of assistance disbanding. 'I have alternative resources to call upon, don't trouble yourself.'

'You rarely give me the option.' Mycroft pointed out, extending his left arm to reveal a rose-gold Magistralis beneath the cuff. He considered it longer than strictly necessary, either stalling for an intervention or reluctant to pronounce their time at an end. 'I'd wish you luck in finding John, but it would be disingenuous.'

'Thankfully, I've more than luck at my disposal.' Sherlock dismissed curtly, tugging his collar up as he signified intention to leave. The itch of intermingled dirt and blood across his scalp stirred a deep longing for hot water and seclusion, yet he hesitated at Mycroft's observant silence. 'I won't be in touch.'

'It's a shame about the psychosis.' Mycroft cut in over his fourth step, and Sherlock paused in resignation.

'I see. So the official statement from Whitehall is that I'm psychotic?'

'Irrational beliefs of persecution, grandiosity, violent tendencies... John no doubt failed to form a diagnosis on the basis of his conflicted interests.'

Sherlock twisted back at the implied threat, voice falling three semitones in a warning of his own. 'Detain me on the pretence of a mental setback and I will make your life unbearable.'

'I'm sure I wouldn't notice the difference.' Mycroft's confident stance moved forward another step, Sherlock noting the apparent self-assurance as an obvious indicator of anxiety. 'You're going to admit to a secure medical facility of my choosing, where - even if you do not benefit from the experience - your safety will at least be ensured under supervised custody. Perhaps then I might have time to straighten out this mess.'

Sherlock doubted safety even featured in his brother's strategy. He might not have dressed the body or strung it up, but Mycroft had known it wasn't John and presumably suffered no hesitation in expanding the lie to control him.

'Captivity isn't protection.' Sherlock insisted.

'That depends on who you're protecting.' Mycroft cocked his head, glancing at his watch emphatically once more. The threat was idle, he knew what Sherlock was capable of should he attempt outright restraint, but it wouldn't come to that. His brother only dared to cross him on an intellectual battlefield.

'If you wanted a favour, you only had to ask.' Sherlock conceded wearily, far too familiar with the array of his brother's actions.

The ghost of a smile met his offer. 'I feel it helps to remind you of the alternative to my support, who knows, you may even come to appreciate it in future.'

'Well, we all can dream.'

'But seeing as you're offering,' Mycroft continued regardless, 'I could use your assistance, yes.'

'Fine. If it coincides with my agenda.' Sherlock warned.

'Given the importance of the problem, you'll want to make sure it does. It shouldn't take long.' Mycroft chirped pleasantly.

'Not acceptable.' Sherlock stated in annoyance. 'I'll put my skills at your disposal, but you won't dictate priorities to _me_, Mycroft.'

'London is now the epicentre of a viral campaign to give you trial by media, Sherlock. You need to disappear from surveillance entirely and doing so without visas and passports will take a long, ill-afforded amount of time. Your old ones are useless, the home office cancelled everything. Fortunately, I've had new ones made up. They're waiting in location four.' He leant forward suddenly, sniffing the air with an aversive expression. 'Is that… perfume?'

'No!' Sherlock unravelled the foreign scarf and ripped it from his throat in frustration, the crimson cashmere alarming when he'd expected French Navy. Who had gone to so much trouble in replicating his clothes, only to change the colour?

A small red pin of a fish sat nestled inside a fold of the fabric, symbolic rather than a species in particular. Aside from the connotation of a 'red herring', Sherlock supposed it could be a deep-water Redfish. The first name that came to mind was _Sebastes Mentella_, Moran's initials? They almost shared first names.

The major markets of consumption for Redfish were Japan, Germany, Russia and the US. The scent from the scarf had been manufactured in Aachen, which had a regular market presence in the town centre. But, the red of the Soviet flag now tied in closer with his knowledge of Moran's affairs.

Having lost the focus of Sherlock's attention, Mycroft cleared his throat firmly. 'I'm not asking you to abandon John, I'm proposing an exchange. I'll help him as best I can, but you must go abroad and complete some sensitive transactions on my behalf as a matter of urgency.'

Sherlock looked up again, stuffing the scarf inside his coat. 'The 'Excuse me, I seem to have unloaded my gun into your chest' type of transactions, no doubt. Running out of spies, Mycroft?'

'I can fasten your straight-jacket myself, if you'd like?'

'And I could just tie you to the pig pen and leave.' Sherlock countered smugly, deciding restraint was an overvalued quality if John were not present to witness it. 'I offered to kill you, though Moran wasn't interested.'

'Your threats of fratricide began aged four, forgive me if I don't take them too seriously. My enemies appear to have more integrity than family these days.'

'I'm unable to differentiate the two, myself.' Sherlock retorted to Mycroft's reproachful stare. 'And we both know you're not here for family.'

'Then perhaps I won't search for you so enthusiastically next time.'

'Oh, stop pretending to care so very damn much.'

'So I can presume your answer to be yes?' Mycroft prompted coldly, applying himself once more to detached patience.

Sherlock shrugged. '_Presume_ what you want. Moran seems more in control of your affairs than you are these days.'

'Addicts usually believe they have control.' Mycroft offered in explanation.

'Don't they just.' Sherlock smiled, watching his brother's posture straighten. 'So you're about to tell me that SM's confidence is all an illusion then?'

Mycroft revealed a small tablet from his coat, tapping the edge as he passed it over. 'We got to his son in Orenburg. I'm fairly certain Moran would not have been wasting time here if he knew.' True enough that a dangerous animal posed less danger in its natural habitat. If Moran believed things were going his way, he'd certainly be easier to predict.

'This case will be off-radar, in all aspects you'll be operating on your own. However, as you'll no doubt steal your own otherwise…' He selected a phone from another pocket and combined it with a singular car key, clearly prepared.

'It doesn't matter _how_ covert you think you are now, it's not like the early days when we played in the shadows of anonymity.' Sherlock cautioned, accepting the devices all the same. 'He may be operating within your radar but you're in open view now; in Moran's circles you're infamous.'

'Exactly where I wish to be.' Mycroft reassured, smiling at Sherlock's inadvertent concern. 'You'll learn faith one day, brother.'

'Not in the last three decades, or the subsequent three I expect. I wouldn't imagine you have many tricks left up that umbrella of yours I don't know about by now.'

'Imagination was always your weak point. You wouldn't put such energy into composition if you didn't feel the need to prove something to us both.'

'I'm warning you - don't lie to me about John again.'

'You'd have gone on a chaotic killing spree in pursuit of the wrong man if I'd left you to your own devices.' Mycroft smiled, almost affectionately.

'And your proposal differs how, exactly?'

'_Knowledge_, little brother. It will get you closer to John than your hatred. I presume you noticed the tunnel?'

'Yes, yes.' Sherlock dismissed, checking the phone. 'So the building's surrounded and they think you're talking me around to the notion of voluntary institutionalisation?'

Mycroft tipped his head, glancing about the warehouse as if he were in real-estate. 'Oh, I suppose the Site Officer will burst some minor blood vessels when he finds out his perimeter was compromised from the start. Contaminating evidence will make the Crown's case unconditionally difficult, all that sort of thing. Around forty DNA profiles at last count, give or take. All on register with sufficient previous to muddy the water.'

'The SOCO's have been busy.' Sherlock smiled, relief evident in the drop of his shoulders. 'I suppose I should thank you.' He handed over the hand-written note instead, a peace-offering of his own.

'I'd rather you tied me to the pig pen.' Mycroft admitted half-heartedly, checking the note.

Sherlock snorted in amusement, realising that perhaps he could make Mycroft's morning a little easier after all. 'Oh, I think we can do better than that,' he confided, knuckles tightening.


End file.
